I just finished reading Mary Stewart’s book, Wildfire at Midnight. The book was
originally published in 1956 and was re-released in 2011. Reading it was such a
pleasure that it reminded me why Stewart’s books landed on the New York Times and other bestseller
lists multiple times, and why many consider her to be the founder of the
romantic mystery genre. My review is contained in the video below, or you can skip the video and read the review beneath it.
Mary Stewart was born in England but she died in Scotland,
and her knowledge of the Highlands—and particularly of Skye, the book’s
setting—is apparent. I do not fish and I have never climbed and never thought I
would be interested in the details of either sport, though books on Mount
Everest are among my favorites. In Wildfire at Midnight, the
heroine—Gianetta or more commonly called Janet—is much the same. In need of a
break from her job, she heads to a resort on Skye and runs right into her
ex-husband Nicholas. Determined to remain there and enjoy her time anyway, she
is soon caught up in the tension at the resort—a tension, it turns out, to have
been brought about by a ritual murder on the mountain. It is a murder in which
the resort’s guests are each suspect—all except Janet, who arrived after it had
taken place.
We meet a wide range of characters, from cheating husbands
to unhappy wives and when two women become lost on the mountain, the suspense
ratchets up. One is found dead after her rope had been cut and the other nearly
dead several days later. Now unconscious, Roberta cannot tell the authorities
who the murderer is, and the killer makes an attempt on her again. Then another
guest is found murdered, his throat slit—and our heroine, wishing for a quiet
afternoon fishing, winds up in a fight for survival.
The action is fast, the words concise. Though it was written
in the 1950’s, the heroine is surprisingly independent and quite capable of
standing up for herself. After her divorce, she returns to a very successful
modeling career and has become somewhat of a celebrity—though in the end, in
typical 1950’s fashion, the book turns to a woman-in-jeopardy with a romantic
ending.
There are twists and turns in this book, each time causing
me to question which of the resort guests could be the killer—and it isn’t
limited only to the men. Amid the suspense are the sweeping vistas of the
mountains, the varying experience of the climbers, both the serenity and the
dangers of a land that is so enticing and yet so unforgiving.
Mary Stewart wrote around 17 romantic suspense novels in
addition to books in four other genres. If you haven’t read any of them, Wildfire at Midnight is a great
place to start.
I’d like to tell you about a book I just read
by Fran Stewart called A Wee Murder in my Shop. For the past few years there has been a
constant slate of hard-hitting news stories and sometimes it’s necessary to
escape into a different type of drama, one that is far removed from current
world events, and A Wee Murder in My Shop is just the ticket. Watch the video below or at https://youtu.be/FRDyIhvZo9o or skip below the video to read the review.
I knew I had to read this book when the author
told me that she was inspired to write it by R. A. Dick’s classic, The Ghost and Mrs. Muir. That is one of my all-time favorites, but I
always wished that Lucy Muir and Captain Gregg had been able to remain together
and form a deeper relationship. This book reminds me a lot of that but it also
brings us up to date with a more modern and independent protagonist, Peggy
Winn.
Instead of inheriting a ghost with a house as
Lucy Muir did, Peggy gets the ghost when she purchases a Scottish shawl that
turns out to be roughly 700 years old. And while the ghost is also that age,
he's frozen in time as a virile 30-something who is still deeply in love with
the woman who first owned the shawl. Now that the shawl has somehow been
resurrected after all those centuries, the ghost Peggy nicknames Dirk remains
with it as if tethered to it, following Peggy across the Atlantic to Vermont
where she owns a gift shop called The ScotShop.
Soon Peggy and Dirk are pulled into a murder
mystery. The victim is none other than Peggy's ex-boyfriend and the crime scene
is smack dab in the middle of Peggy's stop. We are introduced to a cast of
memorable characters, some of whom seem to have secrets, and we’re left
guessing who killed Mason, why, and above all, why he was killed in her shop in
the dead of night. The investigator is a modern day love throb, Harper, and I
found myself caught between wishing for a magical relationship with Dirk or a
more realistic love affair with Harper.
The author reeled me in and I could visualize
the quaint Vermont village with its Scottish theme, rows of gift shops and cozy
restaurants and steady stream of tourists—so much so, that I wish I knew if
there was truly a village the place was based on so I could visit. There are
ample clues and red herrings throughout the book, including some twists that
take us into the distant past, all woven together so expertly that I really
didn't know how the story was going to end.
The book is truly entertaining and a fun read
and escape. We don’t learn exactly why Dirk is tethered to the shawl, which
turns out to be fine because this is only the first in the ScotShop Mystery
Series. I was very happy to discover that Peggy, her ghost and her new love
interest have all been set up nicely for the sequel. It’s rather like wrapping
up some details in a television series but leaving us with a cliffhanger so
we’re eagerly looking forward to the next installment, and in fact, I can
definitely see this series made into a television series complete with the
strong, independent woman, the sexy detective and the very sexy Scottish ghost.
I highly recommend A Wee Murder in my Shop by Fran Stewart.
Visit my YouTube channel at https://www.youtube.com/user/terrellpm for more book reviews or visit my website at http://pmterrell.com/for book trailers, the inside story of my writing as well as other authors, excerpts from my books and much more.
I purchased Mourning Dove by Claire Fullerton for two reasons.
First, I had read Dancing to an Irish
Reel which takes place in my favorite place—Ireland—and thoroughly enjoyed
it so I knew I enjoyed her style of writing. Second, Mourning Dove takes place in Memphis in the 1970s. I
lived for a few years during the ‘70s in the Mississippi Delta and I was curious
how the backdrop of Mourning Dovefit into my recollections of the place
and the era.
Watch the video or read my review below the video:
From the beginning, I was intrigued because the narrator of
the story, Millie Crossan, mentions that her beloved brother Finley is dead. I
found myself wondering with each twist in the journey whether that would be the
moment he dies, and it cast a bittersweet mood over the book, knowing that each
moment of his life was precious and it would be cut short way too soon.
Family dynamics come to life through a loving and caring but
alcoholic father and we view Memphis society through their socialite mother as
the parents separate and divorce and the mother remarries. Finley seems
grounded and wise beyond his years, providing stability and refuge for Millie. Music
becomes part of the backdrop as Finley joins a band and it appears that success
is imminent. And though Millie eventually graduates, gets married, miscarries
and is divorced, the book is not about her relationship with her
boyfriend/spouse or friends in Memphis as much as it is an ode to her brother
and the vital role he played in her life. They are almost like soul mates,
weaving through their own lives yet always finding their way back to the other
despite the miles that eventually separates them.
When I finished Mourning Dove, I was struck by the brevity of life and
how quickly it plays itself out. I was also reminded that regardless of the
paths we take in adulthood, our lives are truly formed by those early years. It
brought back memories for me of a different time and place, a bygone era that
seems cruel and crude in comparison with today’s enlightenment. It reminded me
just how far we have come, and how far we have yet to go.
In The Shadowy Horses by Susanna Kearsley, archeologist Verity Grey begins an
excavation in Scotland. The Ninth Roman Legion was rumored to have camped there
as they marched north from York to fight the Scots, and the owner of a remote
manor house is convinced his property contains the bones of the lost legion.
From the first night in the manor house, Verity hears the
horses thundering across the fields beneath her window, whinnying and snorting
as their hooves pound the ground. Yet when she begins her first day of work,
she discovers there are no horses within miles around.
The cook’s son has paranormal gifts that Verity vainly
attempts to logically explain away. He sees the ghost of a Roman sentinel
walking through the fields. Verity reminds him of his sister, so the phantom is
determined to remain near her, watching over her and protecting her—which
factors into the climactic scenes. The cook’s son also sees things before they
happen and occasionally is consumed by other unseen presences.
As Verity begins the excavation work, she is joined by
others including a handsome Scot named David so in addition to the ghost and
the work, she finds herself caught up in romance.
I have loved every Susanna Kearsley book I’ve read. Her beautiful style reminds me of books I read
while growing up; a modern-day Daphne du Maurier or Mary Stewart. The
characters are complex, revealing themselves one layer at a time. The setting
is described so exquisitely that I could smell the heather in the fields, the
rain moving in, the fish market in the village. I could hear the shadowy horses
thundering through the fields, I could feel the ghostly presence of one that
can never leave his last encampment. Reading any of Kearsley’s books is truly
an immersive experience.
There is a twist at the end that I didn’t see coming but in
retrospect, all the clues were there, cleverly hidden in plain sight.
I definitely give this book five stars and I’m anxious to
read another of Kearsley’s books as quickly as possible. They are addictive.
I have often heard the phrase “geography is destiny”.
Originally a geopolitical theory that refers to certain geographic regions that
carry strategic advantage, it can also be applied to the way your life unfolds,
the opportunities open to you and ultimately to what you are able to achieve in
life. This philosophy was brilliantly portrayed in the 2017 neo-Western murder
mystery movie inspired by a true story, Wind River, starring Jeremy
Renner and Elizabeth Olsen.
The story takes place on the Wind River Indian Reservation
in Wyoming in the middle of winter. It is an inhospitable place, isolated from
the rest of the world in a winter wonderland that can turn vicious in an
instant. Early in the movie we learn the atmosphere becomes so cold that the air
in the lungs can actually crystallize, leading to death. When expert tracker
and U.S. Fish and Wildlife Agent Cory Lambert (played by Jeremy Renner) discovers
a young woman’s body six miles from the nearest structure, he recognizes the
telltale signs of pulmonary hemorrhage. The question is why she was so far from
anything; tracing her footsteps, he comes to the conclusion she had been
running for six miles—barefoot on ice and snow.
The Wind River Indian Reservation is a place forgotten by
modern man, though it encompasses over 3,000 square miles as well as 3,500
square miles of water. It is the home of just over 26,000 Eastern Shoshone and
Northern Arapaho Native Americans, descendants of people pushed onto the
reservation from their original territory beginning in 1868, some 30 years
after the Cherokee were relocated along the Trail of Tears to Oklahoma.
The Reservation has only a handful of people on their police
force and because the FBI has jurisdiction on federal property, an agent is
called in from Las Vegas when the coroner confirms the victim had been sexually
assaulted. Jane Banner, played by Elizabeth Olsen, is unfamiliar with the
unforgiving landscape and relies on Cory Lambert to assist her in the investigation.
The landscape itself becomes an antagonist. Regardless of
the temperature in the room, you will find yourself shivering and reaching for
an extra throw or blanket. The fact that Native Americans were forced to live
there—and they survived—is a testament to the ability of human beings to adapt.
Opportunities there are nearly non-existent; in one scene, a young man is asked
why he didn’t get out when he might have been able to escape the poverty, high
crime and hopelessness. One gets the sense that because these people have lived
there for generations, sometimes the land itself prevents them from straying
far, regardless of the opportunities that might be available to them elsewhere.
It is as if their feet have roots grown deep into the frozen ground, fusing
them forever to that place and time.
I admit I closed my eyes during a scene toward the end of
the movie, where we learn in a flashback what occurred to the young woman and
how she came to be outside in her bare feet, running for her life for six miles
over ice and snow that would have stopped an average human being in their
tracks long before it stopped her. By this time, the haunting landscape and the plight of its people had
pervaded my spirit and long after the movie was over, I felt as if I was still
there.
Missing person statistics exist for every demographic except
Native American women. The life expectancy on the Wind River Indian Reservation
is only 49 years and unemployment rates are more than 80%. (Bustle,2017) Though missing person statistics are not kept, Native American women
are 10 times more likely to be murdered than other groups and experience rape
and sexual assault at 4 times the national average. (NewYork Times, 2012)
If geography determines our destiny, it is difficult to
fathom why anyone would remain in a place that appears destined to kill them—perhaps
the original intent when these tribes were forced from their original
territories. And yet it happens all across the globe. The invisible system that
anchors us remain so strong that it is often difficult—if not impossible—to break
free.
For nearly 20 years I have written suspense novels and
historical suspense, so it may come as a surprise—to you and to me—that I have
written my first children’s book, The Adventures of Blade and Rye.
Written for children ages 10 and under, The Adventures of Blade and Rye is written as a lyrical poem
similar to the style I loved when I was a small child and listened to my mother
reading The Cat in the Hat or The Night Before Christmas. The first
things I memorized were stanzas from those book pages, and they instilled in me
a love and appreciation for poetry.
The book is about two tiny fairies named Blade and Rye and
their adventures when they discover Planet Earth. They fall in love with the
Blue Planet and beg their teacher, Miss Indigo, to remain there to witness all
the exciting things that occur in nature. They must find the perfect home, which
takes them from mountain peaks to ocean depths. When they discover just the
right spot, they are turned into two tiny blades of grass to keep them safe
from wandering into danger. And there under the protective arms of a yew tree
beside an idyllic lake, they bask in the sunshine, witness the moon’s
appearance and discover life underground.
I have always loved angels and fairies and as I have researched
my Scots-Irish ancestry, the love and appreciation for these wee creatures have
only grown.
The official release date is November 22, 2018. Until then,
pre-orders can be placed with local bookstores for the paperback edition, which
retails for $11.99. The Kindle version is also available for pre-order at $4.99,
and amazon has jumped the gun and is selling the paperback prior to the
official release date. The book is 44 pages and full color inside and out,
illustrated beautifully by Susan Fitzgerald, who truly makes Blade and Rye come
to life.
My collie Simone passed away this week. Many of my readers
and social media followers came to know her and everyone that met her adored
her. Her picture hangs in the Robeson County (NC) Humane Society offices; the no-kill
facility that rescued her, a symbol of hope for all the dogs and cats that come
through there, a promise of a better life that is possible to all.
Her own early years were marked with abuse and neglect,
which was how she had come to Animal Control and discovered by RCHS volunteers.
I was asked to foster her; though she was about two years old and should have
weighed 75 pounds, she was barely 45 and completely traumatized. My job was to
get her well so she could be adopted out, but I fell in love with her and she
never left my home. I thought I was rescuing her, but it turns out, she was
rescuing me.
I also had two foxhounds, Mattie and Skipper. Mattie taught
her how to climb the stairs to my office so she could hang out, where the best
water was kept (in the toilet), and how to patrol the yard. Skipper taught her
where all the treats were and how to get them handed out. He cleaned her teeth
and taught Eddie, a Jack Russell adopted a year later, how to clean them as
well. She was patient as her jowls were lifted up by their muzzles while they
worked on her.
After she’d put on weight, I brought her to be spayed. It
was during surgery that the vet discovered she had given birth shortly before
she was rescued at the pound, and she’d never fully healed. She had only been
with me for a couple of months at that point and hadn’t yet figured out that
she was in her Forever Home. When I picked her up, she appeared depressed, her
head hanging, her steps slow but steady, following the leash but not really
looking up. When we arrived back home and Mattie and Skipper greeted her
enthusiastically, she sprang to life, running from room to room, jumping in
each doggie bed before rushing off to the next. It was then that she knew she
would always come back to us. She was family.
Eventually, Skipper passed away, followed a few years later
by Mattie, and Simone became Big Sister to Eddie and Lucy, another Jack Russell
adopted five years later. Her face lit up when they were near and she treated them
as if they were her own puppies that never managed to grow up.
Simone and I grew older together. We slowed down
considerably, her with arthritis and me with nerve damage, both of us favoring
one leg and unable to walk far. We both grew hard of hearing until I realized
she had to see me before she could hear me. And when she walked into a room and
suddenly stopped and looked around, I knew she was wondering what she’d come in
there for.
We had our routines; as I was getting dressed each morning,
she would come to stand by my side until I loved on her and told her she was
the most beautiful collie ever, the Claudia Schiffer of collies, and a
sweetheart, too. More often than not, she would leave the room, circle around
and come back in to hear it all over again.
She followed me to my office every morning for her dental
treat and to lie at my feet while I worked, and she followed me downstairs at
lunch and wherever I went.
Simone knew what so many humans don’t: that love and
acceptance is all that matters. Though she had been abused and neglected, she
greeted everyone that came to the house with the same silent dignity and gentle
greeting—man or woman, black or white, two legs or four. It made no difference
to her that she was black and the Jack Russells were white; she loved them
anyway and they adored her.
She had gone to the vet the week before Hurricane Florence
and gotten a clean bill of health. And earlier this week, she’d returned to
have her teeth cleaned. When she came home, she was unsteady on her feet but we’d
been told to expect that as the anesthesia took time to wear off. She laid on the
patio listening to the birds singing, eventually coming through the doggie
doors into the house, where she tried to get comfortable on the air
conditioning vent in the living room and then in front of the tower fan in the
bedroom.
I lay down beside her, telling her what a sweetheart she was
and how everybody loved her. Her head was up, her ears erect, and she seemed to
be watching something I couldn’t see. I dozed off and dreamed that she was about
3 or 4 years old and outside where Mattie and Skipper were greeting her as they
had that day so long ago. Each was asking the other where they had been before
taking off at breakneck speed to run and jump and play. When I opened my eyes,
I realized only two or three minutes had passed and when I checked on Simone,
she was gone.
Many religions believe at the moment we pass to the other
side, we are greeted by someone we know, someone that loves us, because we all
have someone we trust and love. I like to think as Simone passed, Mattie and
Skipper were truly there waiting for her, eager to show her around. They no
doubt have introduced her to Buddy, the Australian Shepherd that helped me
raise them, and to Charmer, the Old English Mastiff who was Buddy’s best friend
and “brother”. I have a feeling that my mom is telling her right now that she
is a sweetheart, and her voice so like mine, is soothing her.
But the truth is I miss her. I miss her walking into the bathroom
every morning to hear that she’s the Claudia Schiffer of collies. I miss seeing
her sleeping in her bed with all four paws in the air. I miss listening to her snoring
while I watch television. I miss hearing her paws behind me, following me
everywhere, laying down in places where I’d have to step over her, cuddling in
my arms like a true lady and then burping in my face.
