Back to work

So after two FABULOUS events – thank you, Partners & Crime and Brookline Booksmith! – I am back to work! Still buzzing about all the people who came out – old friends, new ones, readers with great questions all – I'm now diving back into the second Pru book, tentatively titled, "Cats Can't Shoot." I finished the draft a few weeks ago, which means that it's almost new to me. I can see the flaws (hope I'm catching all of them!) and I'm at that point where I jump out of the shower to jot down notes to myself, like "Expensive handbag is awkward!" Then, later, I try to remember what I meant. It's all part of the process and by the time I do my next reading (May 17 at Harvard Book Store!) I will be through at least one more draft. So... back to work!

Wow - Thank you, Richmond Times-Dispatch!

I was honored to have both of my new books reviewed in the Sunday Richmond Times-Dispatch. Book critic Jay Strafford got the difference in voice, the difference in characters, and he liked 'em both. THANK YOU!!

Mysteries: Felines, canines and plotlines

By JAY STRAFFORD
Published: April 03, 2011

Anyone who has ever been the human companion of an animal, particularly of a dog or a cat, knows that inter-species communication is no myth. This reviewer knows a Chihuahua who becomes ecstatic and zips into the kitchen at the words "cottage cheese." And we all have been made aware in hard times how our pets realize instinctively that we need comforting.

Which brings us to Boston-area crime novelist Clea Simon, who infuses her mysteries with human-pet interaction and whose books are models of the whodunit genre. In a somewhat rare occurrence, she has published two books simultaneously, one the continuation of a series and the other the beginning of one.

"Grey Zone," the third entry in the series featuring Harvard grad student Dulcie Schwartz, finds our heroine still working on her doctoral thesis, still teaching undergraduates, still missing her beloved late cat, Mr. Grey (who's known to remain communicative), and still growing accustomed to Esmé, her new kitten.

But life isn't all purrs and research. Her new faculty adviser scoffs at the direction her work seems to be going: Dulcie is now trying to prove not only the identity of the 18th-century novelist she's studying but also that the mysterious woman was murdered. Then there's the problem of the Harvard Harasser, who's making life miserable for female students.

Meanwhile, a former student of Dulcie's, Carrie Mines, goes missing, and a psychology professor, Fritz Herschoft, appears to have taken a dive out his office window. But the cops rule out suicide, and a plethora of Dulcie's pals are among the suspects.

Dulcie, of course, is too inquisitive — and she cares too much for her friends — to simply leave matters to the police. In doing so, she risks her life. But in the end, Mr. Grey and Esmé come through, and all comes right.

Simon's talent sparkles in a true puzzler, Dulcie shines with sympathy, and the story stresses the gravity of sexual harassment.

"Grey Zone" shows again that the animals in our lives are much more than our pets. It's a lesson that they know innately and prove every moment of their — and our — lives.



* * * * *



Fans of Gary Larson's "The Far Side" comic strip are likely to remember his parody of "Perry Mason," in which a cow leaps up in the back of a courtroom and says, "All right, I confess! I did it! That's right! The cow! Ha ha! And I feel great!"

In "Dogs Don't Lie," the opener in Simon's projected series featuring animal behaviorist Pru Marlowe, it's not a cow but a pit bull who's the suspect.

Pru, who's 33, has returned to her hometown in western Massachusetts after finding her New York City life a bit overwhelming. And she's not just a behaviorist; she's an animal psychic who can hear what animals are saying (and they can hear and communicate with her, too).

Far-fetched? Not really, given Simon's emphasis on strong women and animals in her books. This time, Pru has been training Lily, a pit bull rescued by computer programmer Charles "Chuck" Harris from a life of abuse. But when Pru visits Charles' house for a training session with him and Lily, she finds a horrifying scene: a dead Charles, his throat ripped out, and a distraught Lily, her muzzle covered with blood.

Pru is convinced of Lily's innocence and sets out to prove it (with some timely help from her senior tabby cat, Wallis — and, when the cops get doubly suspicious — her own). As is her wont, Simon peppers "Dogs Don't Lie" with a cast of credible culprits. Was the real killer Delia Cochrane, who claimed to be Chuck's fiancée, or Mack Danton, Chuck's business partner, or Chris Moore, Delia's previous boyfriend, or someone else entirely?

"Dogs Don't Lie" differs from "Grey Zone" — but not in ways that affect either's likability. Pru is independent, somewhat antisocial and fully smart-alecky, while Dulcie is none of the above. With that distinction driving the tone, "Dogs Don't Lie" has a more tongue-in-cheek feel.

With a clever plot, a surprising conclusion and another amiable heroine, "Dogs Don't Lie" has all the earmarks of the beginning of a successful series. It's a doggy departure from her body of work, but Simon brings her usual skills — and her great heart — to another story that animal lovers and mystery fans will lap up.

Happy DOGS DON'T LIE Day!

Yes, Dogs Don't Lie, the first Pru Marlowe pet noir, has been available for a bit now, but today is the official publication date! I've been so busy, I almost forgot to post that, but now I have. Pru and Wallis are officially launched! Much rejoicing here at Chez Musetta.

Drumroll, please...

The final cover for my debut pet noir, Dogs Don't Lie (coming in April), which Beth Kanell, co-owner of Kingdom Books, Waterford, VT, calls, "a tightly plotted and interesting mystery, with a strong underlying flavor of 'Nancy Drew grown up.'"

(and, while you should wait and get it from an indie, yeah, you can also pre-order it here.)

Should this be in a family newspaper?

File under "heavy petting" (and "equal time" for this blog): I love this. If a dog can smile, Joan Lowell Smith's husky is smiling.

photo credit: Jim Pathe/The Star-Ledger

Guest Blogger: Linda L. Richards

What’s in a name, anyway? This question came up for me again a few days ago, when Clea and I were making preparations for my visit here. At one point she said something like, “it’s a good thing the protagonist of your book is named Kitty, ‘cause she’ll feel right at home on my blog.”

And I laughed, of course, because it was funny and because Clea has the sort of witty energy that’s difficult to resist when she wants you to smile. But at the same time, I thought about what she’d said. Kitty. At this point, I’m having a tough time remembering where that even came from. And her last name: Pangborn? That I remember: I pulled it right out of the air. But I envisioned this young socialite thrust onto hard times. And she’s born a Katherine: Katherine right down to her matched luggage and her hand-stitched towels. And then the world changes -- the stock market crashes, her father kills himself, The Depression sweeps the country -- and she reluctantly emerges as “Kitty:” someone who puts up with a diminutive because she must. (Sorry, Clea: nothing at all to do with cats!)

Now here’s a secret, something I haven’t told anyone else. A secret about Dexter Theroux, the main male character in Death Was the Other Woman. No one has asked me why I settled him with “Dexter.” And it’s a pretty good question: one especially apt for this venue.

So why Dexter? Why not David or Michael or John -- one of those good old saint names that pull so much use. Was something more off-beat called for? Then Percival might have had the same effect. Or Archibald could have served. But the truth is this: at the very moment that the book that would become Death Was the Other Woman was pouring itself into my brain, I was dogsitting my friend Pam’s canine companion. And this dog was a rakish old gentleman: an Australian Shepherd-cross-something-wirey. He had seen his share of summers, this old guy, his coat was thin in spots and his joints could be a bit sore in the morning, but there was something ineffably cool about him. You really got that, if he was a music lover, he’d listen to jazz. And not just any jazz, either. But the kind of cool jazz popularized by Miles Davis and Dave Brubeck. Something that calls for wearing a beret and a slouchy, stripey shirt.

We’d go for walks and he’d be very self-possessed. My own dog, Jett, would be bouncing around, trying to get him to play, and he would play with her, a little indulgently. But there was never any question but that he was thinking his own thoughts and preparing to do his own business. He was courteous to Jett, you understand -- even if that courtesy was sometimes tinged with an aloof superiority that he came by very honestly -- but it was clear that he was focusing on larger issues. And this dog -- of course, and you’ve guessed it by now -- this dog was named Dex.

So, I don’t know, I’m sitting in my studio writing away and Dex has taken up residence somewhere near my feet. (His mom is a writer, so I guess it made sense to him to station himself near the woman making all the sharp clacking sounds on the keyed plastic thing.)

While he’s there, snoring softly, this character waltzes into my manuscript. I recognized him as soon as he walked in. He is tall and good-looking in a 1930s movie star kind of way. But he’s damaged and if you look closely, you can see it in his eyes. And though he’s damaged and even self-medicating, there is a core of moral strength that is sometimes difficult to see. What’s not difficult to see: he’s done some living in those shoes.

The character I was creating is not now a Southerner, but when I first saw him, I thought he was. And because I was writing him, he needed a name right now. When I’m working, my characters must have names in the first instant. The names don’t always stick, and sometimes they go through quite a few changes before I’m done, but this one has stuck just as it came out of my brain that day, with the borrowed dog snoring gently near my feet: Dexter J. Theroux, which seemed to me to be a good name for a damaged Bourbon-sucking Southerner.

After a while, though, I realized that for Dexter to have sustained the kind of damage I required, he probably could not have been an American. The United States got into WW I quite late in the game and I wanted this character to have suffered in the trenches for years. In the end I made him Canadian, which was not a big stretch. In the first place -- and arguably -- Canadian soldiers saw the very worst of that war. The powers that be used the Canadian boys as disposable fighting commodities: you could put them into difficult positions (along with Australians and maybe the Scots) because it didn’t matter as much whether you got them out.

And there were a lot of Canadians living in California in those years. Like, an almost unthinkable number. It was not at all outside of the realm of possibility for Dex to be a Canuck. I did not give him a Quebecois heritage, but I’ve left it open enough that it’s a possibility, especially given the name.

Now Dex -- the original Dex, he of the snores and the scratchy, wirey coat -- passed onto the rainbow bridge in the summer of 2006, just as I was riding the book that would become Death Was the Other Woman to the finish line.

The loss of him left a hole in the world in the place where he used to be and it left a void at the side of the writer whose clacking he heard most often. He does not live on in my novel. That would be silly. A man shouldn’t be a dog. But a bit of him? Maybe a bit of him. The spirit of a too-cool-for-school Dexter, who’s seen enough of life, you can’t impress him anymore, that Dexter lives on in my book, and in her heart.

My Kitty, Myself

Two weeks ago, I ran into a very nice man I know slightly and he shocked the stuffing out of me. How? He showed me a picture of his 13-month-old son, Declan.

Why was I shocked? For the first time in ages, I found myself looking at a picture of a cute little thing that had neither whiskers nor pointed ears.

That’s when I realized how completely pets have taken over my life. When you write mysteries with cats in them, certain things happen. One is that you get caught up in the pet world, a social milieu that like any other has its share of issues and infighting about which outsiders are unaware. I wrote “Cries and Whiskers,” in part, because I was hearing a lot about the conflict between animal welfare and animal rights, with animal welfare people calling animal rights people “anti-pet” and animal rights people saying animal welfare people were “anti-nature.”

This followed “Cattery Row,” which dealt with the pedigreed/show cat world, and “Mew is for Murder,” which touched on animal “hoarding” and pet overpopulation. You start hanging around animal folks and you hear these things. And while normal people – nonwriters – might go, “Oh, how interesting! I never realized that animal rights people might not favor pets,” as a mystery writer, I automatically think: “How interesting – and what a great motive for murder!”

The other thing, much more benign, that happens when you write books with silly animal puns in the titles is that people start sending you pictures of their pets. If I’d been smarter, I’d have saved these – I could have an entire section of my website devoted to readers’ companion animals. It would have been a hoot. As it is, I have some, and expect others to come out of wallets, bookbags, and cell phones every time I read or speak. Hey, I’ve got pictures of pets past (Cyrus) and present (Musetta) on my website, it’s only fair!

Looking at these photos, I’m struck by the variety of pets that we hold dear. I mean, I’m basically a cat person. But I’ve seen photos of rats, puggles, and even the occasional boa. And I wonder, how did we choose these animals? Or did they choose us?

Years ago, I tried a serious take on pet-choice. I wrote a series of articles talking to animal behaviorists and shrinks, breed rescuers, and the like. I read studies – yes, there are studies – and polls done by pet-food manufacturers. I interviewed folks who bought expensive pedigreed animals, and those who were adopted by strays. I talked to people who loved both the ordinary (house rabbits) and the extreme (a uromastyx lizard).
What I wanted was an answer to some basic questions: Why do we love our pets? Why are some of us cat people, and others feline-phobic? What makes one person love pugs, while another is dedicated to Dobies? In the process, I got to visit a gentleman who does reptile rescue. Seriously. He had turned one closet in his house into a terrarium for baby alligators, and he had another room full of rare amphibians, most of which had been smuggled into the country and confiscated by animal control officers. For companionship, though she’d passed on before my visit, he’d long had a four-foot long monitor lizard that would curl up with him on the couch.

Along the way, I learned some sad things about people. We’re a faddish lot, and we tend to adopt animals we’ve seen in the movies (particularly some dog breeds) without paying any attention to their temperaments – or ours. But along the way, I also learned some wonderful things about pet love. It’s as blind as human love. To the adoring heart, a budgie and a boa can be equally adorable, and the company of a cool, calm, and beautiful reptile can provide as much solace to a lizard lover as the kneading purr of my Musetta does for me. Ultimately, whether we choose our pets – or our pets choose us – the connection is as deep and real as any other emotional bond. Declan’s dad may disagree, but just wait till Declan gets his first puppy.

So I’ve got to ask: Do you have a pet? How did you end up with that particular animal? Or maybe the real question is, how did your pet end up with you?

* A version of this blog originally appeared on Writers Plot, but it's a topic near and dear to me, so I thought I'd repost here.

Cats on wheels!

One of our great local shelters here in Boston, Animal Rescue League, has launched a mobile pet adoption van. When I had lunch with two of ARL's guys last week, we talked about this and I asked about screening. After all, for someone to take an animal in while it's still a cute kitten or a puppy only to bring it back a few months later, when it is considered less cute and adoptable, is a crime. But as this article makes clear, the ARL is being pretty good about screening. At any rate, they're trying -- which is why I'm contributing both a set of signed books and the right to name a character to their big October fundraiser "Moonlight Ball", and why we'll be doing a fund-raising event later this year. More details as they come together.


And, yes, this is where we got Musetta. This is what she looked like in those days: