Category Archives: cozy mystery

Sep1

summer camp for adults

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I’ve watched this real estate video more times than I can count. It’s been on YT for over 6 years now, and I return to it every so often, just to get re-inspired.

Deep down inside, don’t we all want to live at “summer camp for adults?” Where the living is slow and easy. I’ve only been to Nantucket once. I instantly felt completely at home, as though I’d always been there. One night waiting to eat dinner at a bar, I met a young woman resident who made her living as a decorative painter. It’s a good thing a table became available quickly – I was just about to ask her for a job…never to return to America, as the locals call the mainland. I could just as easily have stayed and never looked back.

That is where all of my fantasy novels start. As a child the books I wrote (literally, on folded used paper that I sewed together) were all about horses and farms and life at the lake and solving mysteries. But all of the novels I’ve written as an adult still remain in my head. And they all begin with a woman disappearing from her life and beginning anew in a strange place. Like Anne Tyler’s Breathing Lessons, or Silvio Soldoni”s Bread and Tulips, the protagonist woman has become invisible to her family and friends. It’s depicted perfectly in the series The Marlow Murder Club, but this time Becks Starling finds a new life when she discovers a new calling as a sleuth.

New calling or new location, every woman who has ever been responsible to and for anyone else- in other words, every woman – soon discovers that she is invisible to those she cares for. Innocently most of the time, they have slipped into being dependent on her. The more responsibility she handles, the more responsibility they lay at her feet. She becomes the invisible cog that keeps the machine running smoothly. And she begins to fantasize about a different life, one where she is free...

Believe me, I’ve planned my escape to the nth degree. I’d be far less happenstance about it than any fictional character. No one would ever find me. I know myself just well enough to know how to disappear from here and reappear elsewhere unrecognizable.

But here’s a big clue: as far as location is concerned, I’m right at home where I am living now. A small village on the west coast of Michigan is as close to the NE coast of the country as I’m likely to get in this life. And other than those 2 places, I might feel at home in Great Britain or Ireland. Give me vast deep water, a cold, damp climate and pine trees. You can have the rest of the planet.

And to further dispel any mystery about me: my dream life is single and my dream home is shingled. An old Cape with wide pine floorboards. Collections of dishes and colorful artwork. I entertain friends and family at Sunday brunch while the dog and cat sleep on the hearth. As I’ve always been fascinated with architecture and the fine art of interior design, there are inspirational stacks of design books in every room for spontaneous perusal. And I almost forgot – every bathroom has a window, for Heaven’s sake! Who thought it was okay to omit windows from bathrooms?! Same plonker who thinks open floor plans are acceptable for humans, maybe. One more detail: there will always be rock and roll. Okay, that’s it for today. Carry on…

Aug21

bugger

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“People without a sense of humor will never forgive you for being funny.” – Joyce, The Thursday Murder Club

In my fantasy life I host a writer’s group once a month. Or maybe we pretend to be a book group or a writer’s group but we really solve murders. We gather around my gorgeous little antique dining table in the upholstered rattan chairs and talk and ponder all afternoon. We have tea, coffee, perhaps a sip of prosecco. We open little party gifts we’ve made or collected for each other, and we eat cucumber sandwiches and scones with lots of cream…someone falls asleep out on the veranda in the chaise lounge. It’s just a little nap. Some drooling might occur, but no one will hold it against you.

They love coming to my home, because, well, let’s face it – I know how to entertain. And put together a list of suspects. No one leaves hungry, and everyone leaves excited and hopeful and full of new ideas. It will be hard to sleep tonight.

In my actual life, a dear friend is moving into a new apartment in a retirement community, as did another friend not long ago. I’m experiencing pangs of jealousy. First of all, I love being old. Helen Mirren said “the best part of being over 70 is being over 70.” So hanging out with peers is ever so appealing. Young people just don’t get it. I want no-holds-barred brutally honest communication – and I also want to be home in my pajamas by 8.

All of my adult life I’ve wanted for nothing more than a big, raucous house full of family and friends. Kids and grandkids, constant coming and going. Music playing and spontaneous dancing and laughter and laughter and laughter. And a private office off my bedroom with a door that locks when “I vant to be left alone.“

That was my childhood home, and I spent the last 50 years of my life trying to recreate it. But it wasn’t real. It was a sham. My childhood home was also hiding terrible neglect and abuse and dysfunction. The big loud happy home was just for show. My parents wanted the happy home, too; they also didn’t know how to make it happen. They didn’t know how to face the addiction demons. Neither was I going to be able to create the life I wanted; I had not a clue how to go about it. And so shame tends to creep into my dreams and cloud my sleep. When I wake I feel entirely like a failure. Where did I go wrong?

That’s where the deep sense of failure stems from: I’m smart…but not smart enough to have figured this out when I was younger. To have stopped trying to please everyone else and keep everyone else safe; to have known that survival mode will never get you where you want to go. I was slow to understand that love is not transactional, nor negotiable. I wasn’t just quite smart enough to know that we really cannot earn our way to health and happiness…to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt that I AM already everything I could possibly dream. My loyalty and devotion were misplaced outside myself.

And now I have lived long enough to know the privilege of looking myself in the mirror and asking, “IS that what you really wanted? Or perhaps, is there something far more valuable to be gleaned here?” And now I can let myself fall apart at the seems. I grieve the life I spent trying to fulfill a fantasy that, in fact, I would not choose now. Now that I belong to myself.

“Hope is a renewable option: If you run out of it, at the end of the day, you get to start over in the morning.” – Barbara Kingsolver

Aug15

“you’re messy & you talk too much…”

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Terribly neglected, Catlips woke me at 4:30. His bowl was empty. I gave him a quick little spit of his soft food, hit the loo, and headed back to bed. His highness let me sleep until after nine. That felt luxurious. I love waking naturally when my body has decided it is done dreaming for the night. That is one of the greatest pleasures of no longer getting up for work every morning, and I do not take it for granted.

Another of life’s greatest pleasures is coffee. Admittedly, I am an addict. I began drinking coffee around the age of 4 or 5, when I would beg my parents to share this magic elixir. Watered down with lots of cream and sugar I suppose, I was immediately hooked. Anyone who knows me knows that I wish everything tasted like strong coffee…maybe with some milk, hold the sugar. As I used to order it, “blonde and bitter – like me.” Since my hair is white now I can no longer get away with that.

But lately, ill with pancreatitis after passing gallstones, I have not been able to enjoy coffee. I haven’t been able to enjoy much actually. This morning I am feeling better and I am having a cup of coffee. The morning is sunny and cool, the cat sleepy, and life is good. Splendid, in fact.

And I am going to enjoy my coffee while indulging in my not-so-secret guilty pleasure of watching house tours. Bed ridden and searching for entertainment this past month, I’ve been down the interior design rabbit hole. Three weeks ago one of my favorite YT channels featured a writer’s home. I love anything to do with books and writers. Enter the bestselling author, Mary Kay Andrews, “Queen of the Beach read”, as she’s known. She doesn’t drink coffee, but I guess I like her anyway.

I’ve now read 3 of her novels in the past couple of weeks. She is not a literary giant like my favorite authors, Joan Didion and Toni Morrison. But she isn’t trying to be like them; and admirably, she’s a savvy businesswoman. Her stories contain some history and mystery, yes, but are also given to include romance. Romance doesn’t interest me, but we’ll forgive her that also, shall we? They are quick, easy reads, well written and enjoyable when I’m unable to concentrate and need short increments of distraction. But her home, well…that is another story. I’m obsessed.

Now I follow her on IG also. Of course she is a thinking woman, which to my mind means politically liberal. Outspoken and so creative. She reminds me of my southern Mimi, my maternal grandmother, who had a fabulous sense of style. And also of my Mom who had a great wit, such a warm smile, and curly red hair all her life. Mary Kay Andrews and I are the same age. Both animal lovers. Jesus wants her to have nice things. She’s been told she’s messy and she talks too much. Ditto. Let’s not even talk about our china hoarding issues. She speaks my language; we have a lot in common. And I am enchanted by her humor, taste and charm. Unbeknownst to her, she just might be my new best friend.

Find Mary Kay on Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/marykayandrews/

And we both have a problem with aunts. Those darn judgey aunts…I don’t usually like commercials – but this one is hilarious!

May9

the devastating effects of OPD

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Last month was a blur. I spent the month in bed with pneumonia. Last week I had a clear chest exam. This week my OPD has flared up. No rest for the weary I guess. For those of you who don’t know, OPD is a spectrum disorder. Most of us have some degree of it. You might be surprised to learn that it is only slightly less prevalent in women than men, and that your risk is 37% higher if you live in the United States.

The symptoms of OPD (Obnoxious Personality Disorder) cause more harm than previously recognized here in the states, and are more easily identified in European countries frequented by American tourists. The expat population is currently being studied for their seeming immunity. Although one must wonder, if they didn’t somehow suffer the adverse affects of living around OPD, would they have moved abroad in the first place?

Symptoms often include an inflamed sense of entitlement, frequently followed by “the Karen effect.” One of my first clues of the flareup came around the need to wash dishes. Housework is often a trigger for me. I shouldn’t have to do it. Then there is the dilemma of having to cook for myself, but recent improvements in meal delivery options have helped with that.

The biggest trigger for me is the lack of high quality entertainment on the television. I subscribe to a dozen or more self-help streaming services and have thousands of movies and television series available to watch. Yet I am so picky that I can seldom find anything satisfying to quell the symptoms. I am frequently irritated, even at inanimate objects.

If you, too, suffer from the crippling effects of this disorder, know that there are resources available. Dial 1-800-I-BLAME-U, or try pulling your head out of your behind after a long, warm bath. This Netflix series will also help:

Dec12

cat lady

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My first cat was a calico kitten my Mom got me at around the age of four. I wouldn’t remember why, of course…perhaps I was grumpy about having a new sibling. I named her Patches. I do remember Mom and I sat very still on the floor peeking in to watch her giving birth to a litter of kittens in the bottom of my wardrobe, and being heartbroken when I couldn’t keep them all.

At the time my parents had a boxer named Duchess who kept getting out and terrorizing the neighborhood. She jumped through the living room picture window once and took off down the street. I remember the woman who came to pick her up when Mom found her a new home on a farm. But I was very sad. She was soon replaced with a Cocker Spaniel I named Blackie, because, well, black. Apparently my imagination was not yet fully developed. And so began my life-long love of animals. Growing up in a family with five children we always had cats and dogs and birds and fish and my sister had a horse. Most of our pets lived long luxurious lives I’m happy to report.

Many years ago I lost my beloved cat Polly (Polly Wolly Doodle All the Day) and I was devastated. It doesn’t get easier to lose a pet as you get older; it gets harder. I would never replace her – she wasn’t replaceable. Now I know that. I didn’t think my heart could survive much more loss. I was wrong.

But I did get a puppy a few years later. A Pembroke Welsh Corgi, precisely because I was unfamiliar with the breed. She wouldn’t remind me of the dogs I had loved and lost. When she became older and was slowing down my husband and I adopted a rescue Corgi looking for a forever home, Oliver. And when we lost Christie and were still grieving a year on, my vet insisted I adopt another Corgi rescue in need of a loving home, and we brought home Hariat. With each loss, still devastated and depressed months later, I would adopt another dog hoping to help my aging dog cope and find a new lease on life. My last was Odie, a miniature Beagle from the Kent County Animal Shelter; he was the first Beagle I had ever known. I couldn’t open my heart for another Corgi.

Hariat and Odie are the reason I live where I am now. I bought a house for my elderly dogs. Priority requirement: no steps out into the yard. We had been here several months when I was asked if I could help out a family member by cat sitting Chewy. The dogs have been gone for a few years now, but I still have Chew-chew.

The name has never suited him. He is regal, probably mostly Maine Coon. He deserves a sophisticated moniker befitting his royal presence, but I would never change it. He was already several years old when he came to my house. There was no period of adjustment necessary. He immediately became one of the dogs. He’s a cat-dog.

Is he actually quite different from cats I have known in my past, or am I different now? It’s the latter, of course. The longer I have interacted with animals, both wild and domestic, the more they have taught me over the decades. Not only are they sentient, but incredibly intelligent.

Feline Chewy and canine Odie were inseparable until we lost Odie to cancer shortly after the pandemic began. Since, I’ve begun to suspect that Chewy has felt he carries sole responsibility for my well being, and has had to become my assist animal. He will often wake me at night when I am having a nightmare or my breathing is erratic. Last night he was buggin’ me buggin’ me buggin’ me, as he often does in the middle of the night. Wake up! Did he want food? No. In a weirdly unusual move, he tried to knock my water glass off the nightstand. I poured some fresh cold water and he took a sip, sat back and gave me “the look.” It’s intensely judgmental and rather implies my utter lack of understanding; the telepathic message is one of impatience.

Then he jumped off the bed and walked over to his water bowl, sat and looked down at it, and then looked back at me. I said, “I will if you will.” And we both drank water at the same time. We hoomans are dim-witted and hard to train, aren’t we?!

So, I am a cat lady for life. I miss the dogs terribly. But it’s just going to be Chewy and I for as long as I can possibly keep him healthy and alive. We are a team. Are you a cat lady? If you know what a privilege that is, you just know. Judith Potts knows. She has her confidant, Jasper.

Oct11

True Confessions

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Thank you for indulging me this week as I shared my fascination with murder mystery television series. I make jokes that I feel homicidal at times; I hope you know that I can’t really wrap my head around that. I know that most murders are crimes of passion, and almost always committed by family members (after all, who can infuriate us more?) but it is hard for me to imagine losing control to the point of becoming violent. Mean, yes. God knows I have said some very ornery things to the people I’ve loved and respected most. If you’ve ever won an argument with me, it’s because I let you. That is not something to be proud of.

Like generations of girls before and after me, I was raised not to express anger. Sugar and spice and all that…seen and not heard. I learned to stifle anger with the best of them. The very best of them being exemplified by my Mother. I don’t believe I ever saw or heard her angry. And I do believe that is what killed her. She was never angry until one day she was sick and full of cancer. A particularly aggressive, fast growing cancer – liposarcoma. Cancer of the fat cells. She didn’t have any fat. She weighed about 90 pounds. She had been struggling with anorexia. It was not nervosa, it was a medical type of anorexia where she simply had no appetite.

One morning when she suddenly couldn’t walk we rushed her to the ER and within 24 hours she had emergency surgery. They removed an eleven pound tumor from her tiny, weak body. She would live another eight months. Her oncologist, who had also been my sons’ cancer specialist and would later become my sisters’, told me “it’s the cancer of unexpressed anger.” I believe him. And I know exactly what it was about. If anyone ever had reason to commit murder, she did. She thought about it. She talked to me about it one day, devoid of any emotion in her voice. And I understood completely. But she didn’t do it. She really wasn’t capable.

I don’t hold back anger anymore. I let ‘er rip. I’d get out of the way if I were you. I might scream and even throw stuff – but not at you. I abhor violence. I’ve been the victim and the witness to it more than I care to report; it grieves me deeply. We were given a clear divine directive: on earth as it is in heaven. There is no excuse for physical violence – NONE – ever. That includes hunting sentient life, and any mistreatment of animals. And it includes war. It has no justifiable place on this planet. PERIOD.

If you have violent outbursts, do whatever you must do to learn how to manage your anger before someone gets harmed, including yourself. Get help somehow. One of the ways I channel my angry fantasies is to read or watch murder mysteries. I love good storytelling. I like problem solving, and hatred and bigotry are problems. Big problems. I must confess, however, that I vet these mysteries ahead of time as carefully as possible. If I do see the violence take place I will have nightmares and be unable to sleep afterward. That’s why I like the genre called “cosy mystery.” You never see the attack. There is little blood. I want the violence pre-managed for me, thank you. Keep it cosy. And believe me, the irony is not lost.

Believe me, also, when I tell you that if I do ever decide to commit murder, it will be slow and painful; absolutely premeditated. They won’t see me coming. I will never get caught. But don’t worry, it won’t be you.

Oct10

pain always finds the surface

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Well, I must go back on my word. I said I’d share some of my favorite murder mysteries this week – but only the funniest. Three Pines isn’t a cosy mystery. It does, however take place in a small village, populated with quirky characters – one of the cosy mysteries basic premises. This is a police procedural. It isn’t funny. Don’t watch it alone on a stormy night. But it’s too brilliant to bypass. I’m often asked why I am so obsessed with murder mysteries. And my simple answer is this: when well written they are some of the most complex and interesting human stories, and they come to a logical and cathartic resolution. Oh but that I could expect the same from life. Again, a single season of 8 episodes, this is based on the Inspector Gamache novels by Louise Penney. Your local library has them, and they will keep you intrigued all through the cold, dark winter…

However, in the interest of full disclosure detective, I have now realized that I must review my previously held opinion that the best murder mysteries are British. Three Pines is Canadian. Ludwig is British, as is Queens of Mystery. Only Murders In The Building is American, and Recipes for Love and Murder is produced in South Africa.

There is one more series I will mention here, and it is from New Zealand. So Anglophile confession, detective, I guess I’d have to admit the Brits don’t have the corner on this market any longer. So, okay, they started it. I think. Brokenwood Mysteries seems a combination of small-town-quirky-character cosy mystery and police procedural…it wouldn’t be nearly as funny were it not for one particular character who is simply hilarious, that of the Russian forensic pathologist and love obsessed Gina. You’ll enjoy getting to know her.

Oct9

how often do people get murdered around here?!

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One brother is a genius who makes crossword books for a living. His twin is a homicide detective. When detective brother goes missing, his wife calls on her brother-in-law to solve the puzzle. Enter Ludwig, the bumbling autistic agoraphobic who now enters the police world of murder mystery. What could possibly go wrong?

These characters are weirdos – I mean, misfits – which is a feature usually reserved for small town cosy mysteries, so this rather intersects genres. Maybe that’s a new approach, as the cosy murder mystery genre is the second most popular published theme after romance. Romance. Boring. There is usually an element of that woven throughout many mysteries, however. My criteria always begins and ends with the writing, and of course, the characters. What appeals to me here is the reluctant savant who accidentally starts solving crimes. And the missing detective’s teenage son, who doesn’t want to admit how adept he is at hacking the police computers. He offers an intriguing aspect. I do like characters who come into their own genius unexpectedly. So, this one is for the curious.

Oct8

meddling aunts and all…

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Ahhhhh….fall. Best time of the year. Cool, crisply dappled sunlight through the thinning tree canopy…hot tea and cider. Honeycrisp apples. Perfect time for murder. When the mystery writer makes it about mystery writers, I’m in. Nobody does cosy mystery better than the British. Move over Ms. Marple…the aunts are in town.

Queens of Mystery is hands down my favorite mystery series…e v a …and it’s cancelled. Once again, not consulted. So you’ll have to get your fill within the 12 episodes. Guilty pleasure confession – I’m on my third round this fall. Like most cosy mysteries, there are an inordinately high number of murders in the sleepy little village of Wildemarsh. Isn’t it wonderful?!

After all…if I were a homicidal manic, I’d hide on the outskirts of a village, wouldn’t you? And, to quote Wednesday Addams, “they look like everyone else…” So, nothing to see over here, folks. The three crime writing aunts in Queens are of the meddlesome sort. My spirit sisters. But really, they’re just trying to help.

This intricately written crime-solving series has a poignant mystery woven through it’s storyline, but it looks as though we may never find out what happened to Matilda’s mother, the fourth sister, and why she was raised by her aunts. Even the series’ introduction is just about the most creative thing I’ve seen. Rumor has it that OMITB took it’s influence from this, and I can see the similarities. What’s OMITB, you ask?! Only Murders In The Building, of course…do try to keep up, darling.