night time visitors
Jun 19
it’s a give-away thing again
May 14
Every three months authors on the Kindle platform can
pick a few days during which their books are available
at no charge.
It’s a promotional proposition:
trade the usual royalty payments
for a little fresh exposure,
find some new readers,
possibly in new countries.
People are less shy about trying something new
when the trial is free.
AND SO
in celebration of one more quarter turn around the sun
for 5 days in May of 2026
Thursday to Monday, the 14th through the 18th
all four books of the Ellen & Geoffrey Fletcher Mystery series will be free
as Kindle E-Books
it’s an offering that’s somewhere between a public service and a grab for attention
but, hey, strike while the iron’s hot
the links below will take you to Amazon to purchase the books at regular prices
anytime you care to get one — and please do help yourself —
the FREE window is just for the 5 days above
the Asheville story
the Williamsburg story
the Charleston story
the Roanoke story
Pepin kept to the edge of the room; okay, of the cabin. Her mom was introducing everybody to everybody, while three stewards passed among them pouring champagne. Most were strangers to her, which was odd, since she was about to enter her fifth decade as Gally’s daughter. And since she was also a WMT board member she knew all the senior officers and staff. This was like pick-up basketball. Galliana pointed to her medical adviser, her legal adviser, her editorial consultant. Each of them had an assistant: a secretary for the lawyer, a nurse for the doctor, and a sullen guy hiding behind the editor. Plus Aunt Lizzie. All female, except for the guy. Is that why he looks so very wanting-to-be-somewhere-else? She could drag Trenton up, so two miserable men could have each other.
Why did mom assemble this odd little posse? And why me, out of all Generation Three? Oh, shit! She’s dying. Fuck! That’s what this is about. The whole cruise and everything. Gally still had the voice, theater-trained, she sounded strong as she commanded the room. Damn, gonna miss that woman. She’s 92, mind you, she’s entitled to die. But, angels on a pin, Momma, you could have said something. No, I guess you couldn’t: you’ll deal with it, but you won’t talk about it.
Pepin caught Aunt Lisette’s eye, twisted her head towards Galliana, and back. Lisette nodded, sad, smiling. Of course that’s why Lizzie called, when I said I couldn’t make it this year. The memoir—that’s what the editor’s for—mom’s been pretending to write it for ten years. Oh, god. This is the hand-off of everything. We got Gally’s will to decide who controls the Company, executive appointments for who runs it, plus three weeks of team building, five thousand trust falls into the Bermuda Triangle. All while Galliana’s lawyer certifies the will, the doctor certifies the death, and the editor gets the story the way Gally wants it.
Pepin had expected it would be the usual rewards cruise for high-scoring middle management, like the one she’d gone to last year, half this size, a whole lot less fancy. She tried to make it every couple of years, it was the family business, after all, and still a part of her life. But she had her own career and it was harder to take time away as she got ever-increasing responsibilities. But she made the time, when Aunt Lizzie pushed, because it was a combination of family reunion and company picnic. Besides, since she was on the WMT board, she had to show up twice a year for meetings; and the cruise counted.
She was also a stockholder in the company founded by Grampa Wallner in 1901, Wallner Machine Tools, run by her mom for the past 60 years. But Pepin pursued graduate studies instead settling at WMT. Then she married Trenton, birthed Jake and the twins. Now it was a rare thing to get from Ann Arbor down to Pittsburgh, except for board meetings. The kids had phones and emails, Facebook and Insta, so they had their own channels to Gramma and Great Aunt Lizzie. But the last time Pepin had been in the same room as her mother was six months ago, for the November board meeting. This time, instead of going 300 miles to Pittsburgh she went 1100 miles to Fort Lauderdale, and they were currently steaming towards Bridgetown, Barbados, 1600 miles more. Not always a close family, we Wallners. The champagne was excellent, of course. She nodded, yes, please, for a refill.
~
Geoff wasn’t snarling or fuming, Ellen’s snarky remarks notwithstanding. She had called the Linden Star, their hyper-luxe cruiser, his ‘floating ant-farm.’ That was offensive. He probably could get some work done; it wasn’t a bad writing environment, inherently, so long as he could block the distractions. This was a six million dollar cruise, by a quick on-line check of rates a few minutes ago. Wallner Machine Tool exclusive booking. Why not just divvy six mil 300 ways? Galliana Wallner Gregg had a Rocky-Mountain-scale ego if this is her idea of an appropriate tribute. He should not have fallen for Ellen’s seduction: time on the ocean, change of scene, fascinating overlapping microcosms, teaching fully-formed adults, escape domestic concerns, all in a place made for concentration. Had to be a shuck, thick as she laid that on. Why did he fall for it?
Right now, right here, what’s so fascinating? Old lady with a booming voice introducing a bunch of strangers? Doctor, lawyer, Indian chief. No, Ellen’s not a ‘chief:’ she’s the editor-slash-ghost-writer. Plus a sister and a daughter, a nurse and a clerk, and three women pouring champagne. And, bless his boots, the sucker Geoffrey Fletcher. Shouldn’t she have a bodyguard and a make-up artist and a dresser, kind of a skimpy entourage for a six million dollar ego. Probably waiting next door, since they already know each other.
Old lady. Doctor. Lawyer. Memoirs. Well, okay; that’s what’s happening. That’s a little bit more interesting. Transition. She looks awful, if you tune out the voice. Take the hypothesis. Sister and daughter are heirs apparent? Not the daughter, professor at U. Michigan, mechanical engineering. Galliana runs the company and owns most of it. She’ll leave a black-hole-vortex of vying interests. Billion and a half annual sales, one of the world’s largest privately-held enterprises. What else had Ellen said? Crew of 300 for 300 guests. Two CEOs on board from companies acquired in the past two months. Founded in 1901. Key industrial player in war efforts, both WWI & WWII: retooling for defense, then profiting again from peace. Three stewards still working this room, except they’re called butlers, and they’re all female. Everybody in the cabin is, with one exception. By the minute this gets better. So much time could be saved, so much mental effort, if he’d just assume Ellen knew him better than he knew himself. Must be possible to wrangle a tour of the engine room. Medium-grade champagne—thank you, yes—if you run your scale from really good up to excellent. A smörgåsbord of drink and food and persons and mechanical systems. Ellen lied about one thing: he wouldn’t get any work done, except in his classes. Wonder who’s signed up?
~
Captain Allesandro Talarico pulled up on the great wheel. The nose of the Linden Star did not lift into the air. Never did. But the stretch felt good against his shoulders. Also gave him a second to consider how to answer his first officer.
“There’s a ceremonial aspect. Posing for selfies, nice crisp uniform, smiling like you mean it. I know a few cruise captains who’d be happier on a freighter. They’ll get 392 passengers safely from port to port, but they’d sooner not exchange a single word, prefer to be taking them in caskets. Those guys need a sociable first mate, or a hotel director, who’ll step up. Gunnar, our most excellent engineer, for example, is quite sure he’d be a better captain than me or you because he knows the ship better than we do, in engineery ways, and he’s fully qualified in navigation and operations. He wants the job, it’s a promotion, the money’s better. But I think he’d be miserable dealing with corporate and crew, the staff and customers.”
“But he’s wants to be master and commander, because he likes the authority?” Pascal Lippa asked. She waited to see if the captain was going to do more than nod, yes. “While you see being captain less like giving orders, more like being where everything comes together?”
“Ah, you have been listening to my meanderings.”
They were well underway, several hours out of port, exactly on schedule, a couple hours from dinner. They were two passengers short, but that was cleared with Tahira, the cruise director, who’d cleared it with the client. Everybody else was on board, all their gear, enough food and water and fuel for the voyage. It was an out and return. From Fort Lauderdale to Bridgetown, Barbados, and back, 20 days at sea. Two stops on each leg, no docking, just tenders to shore, but a chance to load fresh produce and give any antsy guests a land break.
He had 276 passengers, a single client covered all costs. And a crew of 226, counting him. 502 souls held against his account before God and the Company.
“502 persons, First Officer, that I’m responsible for,” he said, “and a 27,000 ton ship. Also an itinerary to meet and dining every day with our customers. I have an outstanding crew, yourself included, to manage all this for me. If nothing much happens, I could watch movies in my cabin while you guys ran things.”
“But if something does happen, sir, it will be your fault.”
“That’s the rub. If it’s your watch, First Officer, and you lose the ship to pirates, or run aground, I can blame you. But our employers will blame me, maritime law will blame me, our ambitious engineer will suddenly be very happy that everyone has me to blame. There might be secondary findings against you, or another navigator, or an oiler, if a specific fault was found. But my head would start out on the block and it would take some special kind of luck to pull it off.”
“Anything unusual with this bunch, sir?” Pascal asked. “To watch out for?”
“Don’t think so. A rewards trip, the salesmen who sold the most widgets or insurance polices share a dream vacation. Food and drink and pampering.”
“Tahira said they’d be working more than usual, like a working vacation, meetings and things.”
“Is this a test, First Officer?” Allesandro asked. “WMT, Wallner Machine Tools is the largest privately held company of its kind. They’ve brought on board the entire executive and corporate boards, everybody who’s anybody from CEO down. Policy planning, pep sessions, power struggles. For five million dollars, we’re the setting for all their soap operas. Plus it is a rewards cruise for the bottom echelons. How’d I do?”
“Perfect match with what I heard. But, unless they start fighting with real knives, all that’s nothing to do with us.”
“Precisely. But it’s good that we know the rest, just in case. As you do; and, see, me, too.”
“I’ve prepared a briefing memo for the crew, sir, subject to your approval.”
“How long is it, First Officer?”
“Two pages, sir.”
“That’s them?” He pointed to the papers in her hand. She passed them to him. “Take the helm, please, while I read it over.”
“Yessir, sir.” She stepped up as he stepped away.
After a couple of minutes he looked at her. “Everybody reports to you? Trying to take my job, are we?”
“No sir. I report to you, of course. Just trying to make your job a tiny bit simpler.”
“I marked two typos. Fix those and email it to everyone. Tahira seen it? Good work, First Officer.”
“Thank you, sir. Tahira deserves most of the credit. Right now to distribute? Should I send someone up?”
“Yeah, to both. Get Gunnar, if he’s free. I’m good until he gets here.”
He watched her go through the bulkhead. Sailor pants do love a tight butt. Good head on her, too. If this cruise goes okay, he’d consider pushing her for captain. Not on his boat, he planned to stick it another decade or so. But there’s a couple of other guys in their little fleet who are aging out. Pascal’s got it all, and she works.
Different subject altogether, he’d got permission from Tahira, their smiling little tyrant of a Cruise Director, to enroll in the poetry-writing class Geoffrey Fletcher was teaching. There were perks to being captain. He’d turned into something of a fan, to be truthful. He loved Fletcher’s poems. Something about the stance, the vantage. A match with his own. Tomorrow at two, callooh callay.
~
Lisette watched Gally slump into her chair as the guests left. The slump was okay. It was her normal posture now. The straight back thing had become the aberration, though she’d held it well through the meeting. Now they were alone, plus Ellen. Lisette didn’t get Ellen, hunched with Gally over a laptop computer, deeply engaged. She didn’t dislike her, she wasn’t jealous: she just didn’t get her. Obviously Ellen was able to meet some need of Gally’s that Lisette couldn’t. That was fine. Lisette knew her limitations. What that need was, exactly, wouldn’t come into focus. Gally would be dead soon. And she wanted to publish her version of her life before somebody else did. Fine. Lizzie didn’t understand why Gally cared, but she knew Gally did.
Maybe it was that simple, just the memoir. But why constant access? A notepad or a tape recorder would do, if Gally suddenly remembered something. Was it testimony, like in a legal sense? ‘With my own ears, your honor, yes, these two right here, I heard decedent say she loved her only sister as much as she loved caramel.’ But Ellen’s on payroll, why wouldn’t a court assume she’d say what she was paid to say? Maybe it’s because Ellen can’t be erased or flushed down the toilet, like a tape or a notebook? Was Gally afraid somebody on this boat was going to make her do something? Well, that explains why not me. I’d be too easy to discredit in that context, hostile questioning, I’d shut down, besides having no way to distance myself. Had to be somebody not in the family or in the company. Not her or Pepin.
Ellen’s not a permanent employee, a brief hire, just for the cruise. She’s objective, no dogs in our fights, no reason to lie to anybody. You could claim she was hired to lie, to take Gally’s side. But everybody else will be alive, so they can speak for themselves if they need to.
What will I do when Gally dies? Telling her the things she needs, that’s what I do. She asks me a question, I check it out, tell her what to do, and she does it. Somebody will be CEO when Gally’s gone. I could do for them what I do for her. But would they know what I can do? Or what I can’t? Vernon’s retired, too worn out to work full time. His kids are candidates, I suppose. Spenser knows me, but he depends on Violette the way Gally depends on me. And he doesn’t like me, thinks I control his mother; Wesley and Pepin haven’t worked for us since they were kids. And they have lives. But they both have children and there’s some ambition among the grandkids. That’s Gally’s kids and her kids kids. Obviously no issue from me, not being equipped for that enterprise.
But our brother Vernon has one each, son and daughter. Brother Beale is dead, but Jewel is still pushing their dearest daughter Kendell. Six nieces and nephews, total. The most competent have their own careers while the most available are the least able. Spenser will be the worst to deal with, partly because he’s most clearly in the line of succession. He adds two more kids, Gally’s grandkids, but he wants the job for himself. Problem is, he thinks he can tie his own shoes, but it’s Violette who lines up the laces for him. If she writes a speech, Spenser can deliver. He’s actually quite smooth, if well prepped. Years ago, long before her cancer, Gally had asked Lizzie how Violette would do as CEO. She didn’t like Violette, so she’d been noncommittal. The woman was potent, not much good speaking for herself, great using Spencer for a puppet. Maybe that’s Gally’s plan? Let Spencer have the title, as long as Violette called the shots? Bind them contractually.
You’d think Gally would have told her only sister and constant companion what she intended. Okay, that’s it. She hasn’t decided yet, it depends on the cruise, on all the wrestling matches. Gally wanted her to be spared the fights and fuss. She understands how her death will affect me, better than I do. I am one of a dozen projects she has to resolve. Is she strong enough to finish them all? Being on the boat was more stressful than being at home. But in some ways less so, given what Gally wanted to do. Right here, surrounding this stateroom, was Gally’s house, office, and everybody she needs within fifty yards. US and Europeans execs, board, family. They have strong WiFi so they can all monitor what’s happening in their various fiefdoms. If Gally can hang on for the whole three weeks, she just might carry it off.
The cruise line had been fantastic, everything from contract to casting off, but Tahira DeSanctis, Cruise Director of the Linden Star, was best of all. She led through all the choices in digestible segments, then executed everything perfectly. Menus, cabin assignments, itinerary, entertainment booking, scheduling the meeting rooms. Hardly had to bother Gally at all. Usually our reward cruises involve a third as many people, ten days instead of twenty, and never a whole ship. But this operation ran easier than last year’s despite the scale of it.
Dinner would be brought to the cabins tonight, for her and Gally. She didn’t know if the Fletchers were dining in. Or Dr. Ciera Donnelon or Denara Vaughn, Esq. Or their assistants. Lisette had set up the entire cruise, following her sister’s wishes. But the little private entourage in the adjacent cabins, that was all Galliana’s doing. Were they all to be on-call 24/7? Effectively they were already, none of them can get more than three minutes away without falling overboard. But something more than that?
She should run down to Tahira’s office, or whatever you call it on a ship, and see if anything has come up. Take advantage of Ellen as a sitter. She had committed the entire deck plan to memory, for all decks, including the crew and mechanical ones. She knew who was in every cabin. Going to see Tahira hardly seemed like going out, something she normally shunned. Three decks down, sixty feet from the bow stairs to midships. It would be fun. Maybe she needed to get out more at home, too.
a taste from current work-in-process
touched by a bear
May 3
throwing shade
Apr 26
feeding birds, part 2
Mar 22
in celebration of one more quarter turn around the sun
for 5 days in February of 2026
Thursday to Monday, the 19th through the 23rd
all four books of the Ellen & Geoffrey Fletcher Mystery series will be free
as Kindle E-Books
it’s an offering that’s somewhere between a public service and a grab for attention
but, hey, strike while the iron’s hot
the links below will take you to Amazon to purchase the books at regular prices
anytime you care to get one — and please do help yourself —
the FREE window is just for the 5 days above
the Roanoke story
the Charleston story
the Williamsburg story
the Asheville story
If you like any of the books, please leave a review on Amazon, they matter a lot.
If there’s something you don’t like, comment here and I’ll respond to your concern.
Which is up to you, entirely, of course.
Every three months authors on the Kindle platform can
pick a few days during which their books are available
at no charge.
It’s a promotional proposition:
trade the usual royalty payments
for a little fresh exposure
find some new readers,
possibly in new countries.
People are less shy about trying something new
when the trial is free.
Fit to Curve & Heart Attack & Ghost Walk
have been through the experience many times.
But it’s the first time for Drosselmeyer Chronicles,
published just six weeks ago.
10 October 2025
It’s been a long time coming, the first draft was (I think) in 2011.
All credit to Andrew Campbell for the Kindle cover art.
Thanks to Linda Snow’s copy-editing, and to my final test readers, it’s a pretty clean text, grammatically.
There are certainly some unclean aspects, possibly some troubling ones.
But it was time for Ellen and Geoff to get Book 4 done.
It is available on Amazon, Kindle Format, at this link:
Take a look, purchase if you care to. Please me hugely if you did.
Leave a review on line, or comment here, if you care to.
‘Tis the Season.
it’s a give-away
Feb 20
Three books — free for 5 days in February
20 to 24 February 2025
Thursday to Monday
It’s the quarterly-recurring special deal whereby authors can choose to
trade royalty payments for exposure to new readers & new markets.
From Amazon.com — use the links below the covers
to order your copies.
Available only in Kindle format.
Simultaneously at all 15 Amazon stores, worldwide:
US, Canada, Britain, France, Germany, Poland, Spain, Italy,
Netherlands, Sweden, India, Australia, Japan, Mexico, and Brazil.
Nobody doesn’t like free stuff.
Give any or all of these titles a try, and let me know what you think.
Comment here, or email me at: mystery@budcrawford.com.
the Ellen and Geoffrey Fletcher mysteries
March 7th, 8th, 9th, 10th, and 11th of 2024
Thursday through Monday
Including the recently released Ghost Walk
It’s the quarterly-recurring special deal whereby authors can choose to
trade royalty payments for exposure to new readers & new markets.
From Amazon.com — use the links below the covers
to order your copies.
Available only in Kindle format.
Simultaneously at all 15 Amazon stores, worldwide:
US, Canada, Britain, France, Germany, Poland, Spain, Italy,
Netherlands, Sweden, India, Australia, Japan, Mexico, and Brazil.
Nobody doesn’t like free stuff.
Give any or all of these titles a try, and let me know what you think.
Comment here, or email me at: mystery@budcrawford.com.
the Ellen and Geoffrey Fletcher mysteries
December 7th, 8th, 9th, 10th, and 11th of 2023
Thursday through Monday
Including the recently released Ghost Walk
It’s the quarterly-recurring special deal whereby authors can choose to
trade royalty payments for exposure to new readers & new markets.
From Amazon.com — use the links below the covers
to order your copies.
Available only in Kindle format.
Simultaneously at all 15 Amazon stores, worldwide:
US, Canada, Britain, France, Germany, Poland, Spain, Italy,
Netherlands, Sweden, India, Australia, Japan, Mexico, and Brazil.
Nobody doesn’t like free stuff.
Give any or all of these titles a try, and let me know what you think.
Comment here, or email me at: mystery@budcrawford.com.
September 7th, 8th, 9th, 10th, and 11th of 2023 Thursday through Monday
Including the recently released Ghost Walk
from the Ellen and Geoffrey Fletcher Mysteries series
August 18th, 19th, 20th, 21st, 22nd of 2022
Thursday through Monday
Including the just released Ghost Walk
free from Amazon.com (links below the cover pictures)
available only in Kindle format
At all Amazon stores, worldwide:
US, Canada, Britain, France, Germany, Poland, Spain, Italy,
Netherlands, Sweden, India, Australia, Japan, Mexico, Brazil.
People everywhere like free stuff.
Give any or all of these titles a try,
and let me know what you think.
Comment here, or email me at mystery@budcrawford.com.
from the Ellen and Geoffrey Fletcher Mysteries series
November 17th, 18th, 19th, 20th, and 21st of 2022
Thursday through Monday
Including the just released Ghost Walk
_________________________________________
It’s the quarterly-recurring special deal
whereby authors trade royalty payments
for exposure to new readers & new markets.
All briefly free from Amazon.com
use the links below the covers.
Available only in Kindle format.
Simultaneously at all the Amazon stores, worldwide:
US, Canada, Britain, France, Germany, Poland, Spain, Italy,
Netherlands, Sweden, India, Australia, Japan, Mexico, Brazil.
Nobody doesn’t like free stuff.
Give any or all of these titles a try,
and let me know what you think.
Comment here, or email me at:
mystery@budcrawford.com.
Ghost Walk
May 28
Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday
from the Ellen and Geoffrey Fletcher Mysteries series
February 11 – 15 of 2022
Friday – Monday
The idea is that that authors with books published on Kindle can choose, now and again,
to trade income for exposure and make their titles be briefly free.
So, new readers, arise! Exercise your freedoms! Lest they wane and waste.
free from Amazon.com (links below the cover pictures)
available only in Kindle format
At all Amazon stores, worldwide:
US, Canada, Britain, France, Germany, Spain, Italy,
Netherlands, India, Australia, Japan, Mexico, Brazil.
(People everywhere like free stuff.)
Give either or both of these titles a try,
and let me know what you think.
Comment here, or email me at mystery@budcrawford.com.
It’s seven years ago, now,
that I was musing on reviews.
I’ll stand by what I said.
Every book published, or symphony premiered, every play that opens, lives or dies on its reviews. Sometimes a work survives a spate of initial bad reviews, or the reviews spur revisions that improve it. Sometimes a rerelease catches a better moment in the zeitgeist. And sometimes a piece thrives despite universally bad reviews. More commonly — enough good notices bring life, enough bad ones bring death.
On the Interwebs
Internet reviews are the same. And different. Reviewers aren’t qualified or institutional, just people who loved the water-proof mascara or hated the salmon on a cedar plank, who thought the treble was set too high or didn’t like how the salesperson talked to her toddler. Good or bad, they’re up forever. A ten-year-old comment might still be on top of the list. Sometimes they generate a spiral, usually downwards, of challenges and replies.
People who use reviews learn to assess the credibility of reviewers and pick up on which ones their own tastes align with. And some sites help by letting you access all the reviews somebody has written or by tracking whether other people scored their comments “helpful.” A long string of 5-star reviews may mark an especially good piece of work. But it may also mean the author has lots of relatives trying to help her out. 1-stars may mean something’s lousy, or show enemies or rivals lurking. A 3-star average may indicate mediocrity or an excellence that not everybody gets.
But it’s all you have, if you’re looking for something new to read, or a new restaurant to try. Your time and money are limited, so you’ll probably check out the higher-rated choices first. Reviews are the blood flow of Amazon: either they bring you some oxygen or your work turns blue. The people behind the work take all the comments personally and feel them sharply. Reviews can validate your efforts or knock you flat. If you’ve spent a year of your life making the best story you know how, hearing “well, that sucked” is going to sting. Obviously he’s an idiot with no taste, but …
Beginner luck
I was lucky, right off the bat, getting strong reviews that pleased me not just because they were favorable, but because they seemed to understood what I was trying to do and thought I had succeeded. But then came some harsh ones, some mean ones. Some wounded because they touched what I thought the weak spots were—ah, got me! Some were annoying because they claimed I had failed at something I hadn’t tired to do, or violated a standard I wasn’t trying to meet. Should you give a bad review to a book because it’s not the kind of story you like to read? Most people let it go, but others are on a mission to purify the world by marking everything that displeases them, dogs and fire hydrants.
What’s fascinating is when the same quality gets an opposite response. Fit to Curve, my first book, starts slowly as I introduce my main characters to the world; for the series, not just for this story. Part of the craft of the novelist is learning what you can leave out (and for the most part: if you can, you should). But this was my first venture. It was the most common criticism, except for the reviewers who didn’t notice, didn’t care, or thought it was a good thing. My second title, Heart Attack, moves more briskly; it generated a different set of complaints. Here’s a selection of typical comments (some fragments, some whole, mostly from Amazon, a couple from Goodreads). Question: have they read the same book(s)?
Specimen reviews
Fit to Curve is a skillfully written mystery with complex characters and such a fascinating plot that I’m way behind on my chores.
This series is a favorite with interesting plots and wonderfully drawn characters. Wish the author would write more of them. The type of book you don’t want to end.
A bed and breakfast mystery. Super characters, well developed. You are waiting for the other shoe to drop. A mouth-watering, good read. I love the old lady with the sharp wit and mind. I’d like the recipes, too
I wasn’t sure I’d like this book at first, because the plot builds very slowly. But once I got into it, I was hooked. I liked the characters, and you get a lot of insight into them.
Good mystery, likeable characters, but overly long-winded. I put it down for days on end because it just seemed to go nowhere at times.
This is too fine a novel, as a novel, to be mired in the mystery/suspense ghetto. It’s a good mystery, with a complex plot, all the mystery trappings, but the characters are rounded and attractive. The theme seems to me to be a consideration of morality — not just sexual morality (or immorality), though there’s some of that, too, for those who like to read such descriptions, but all kinds of morality: for how high a price might you sell your soul?
It pains me to say I just couldn’t get into this book. I found the characters were well written, and their personalities drew me in. However, with that being said, the plot just moved too slow for me.
Heart Attack is a great read! Just wish Ellen & Geoffrey weren’t quite so perfect; never do anything wrong, look great all the time, have wonderful jobs, and the only drawback to their marriage … she can’t have kids.
This couple are a great addition to the mystery genre. Sharp and interesting with a bit of humor and spice.
Snappy dialog. Geoff and Ellen are a great team. He has a definite intuitive method of assessing info and arriving at conclusions that baffle and irk his cohorts. Ellen is more conventional and together are a great team. Unusual mystery not easily solved.
I just read the first few pages and then deleted it from my Kindle. I am not a fan of books with nothing but sex and innuendo for a story line. It might have gotten better as it went along, but I couldn’t get far enough to find out.
The last was my favorite 1-star notice, from Amazon Canada. It’s a little bewildering, I’m really not sure what alarmed her. But it brought a huge brief spike in Canadian sales. Probably also disappointed some readers.
Review review
So, hey, if you’ve got something nice to say, say it. If you’re going to be mean, pause a second: do you need to be? Have you spotted a rotten thing the world should be warned against, or just something not to your taste?
Coming attractions:
Blueberry Chronicles, 2020.
Jul 10
The Gray and The Brown and The Blue —
and the Accidental Engineers.
Catbird
Brown Thrasher
Blue Jay
The birds have not been pleased abut what we’ve done
the past three years with our nets.
But we weren’t happy with their version of sharing, either,
knocking each berry to the ground with a single peck on the day before,
by our reckoning, that berry was ripe for picking.
We had been tossing the 25 foot square nets, best we could,
up and over the bushes. It was slow, rough work
both for us and for the bushes.
The branches carried the weight of the nets, especially at the tips,
and lots of berry clusters were knocked down.
And because the branches were pressed right up against the nets,
the birds could scramble over the top and peck through the mesh.
The challenge we set for ourselves in this year of quarantine was:
could we devise a structure to hold the nets over the bushes?
It had to be doable — this year, before the berries were ripe —
also affordable, reusable, closed tight against the birds,
but openable somehow so we could get inside and pick.
Moving up the hill, section by section,
roughly in order of ripening.
The very tallest and widest branches still push against the net,
in a few places, but mostly the bushes are free inside.
To our astonishment, we did something like what we set out to do.
The berries cost half-a-dollar apiece, something like, this year.
Subject to amortization, perhaps, depending on how many times
we can take it all down, store the pieces,
and put it up again.
For the moment, it looks as if we might have won.
Sorry, guys.
I could a feather unfold
May 16
All birds are odd ducks, as much as all ducks are odd birds.
But phoebes are especially peculiar, especially in their persistence,
and the placement of their nests.
This is nest number one, House Phoebe’s nest, above the dining room door.
She’s built here before, usually on top of the bulb.
That never worked well when the exterior spotlight was a halogen
hot enough to hard-cook the eggs and the mother.
But the pig-tailed compact florescent glowed merely warm and she liked that.
This year she returned to work alongside the fixture,
at the top of the door frame.
The nest would have sealed the doorway shut — if we capitulated to the bird.
Each time we opened it, we knocked off the bottom of the nest.
She’d scold for a few minutes, then rebuild.
Every time we broke it, she’d fix it, in exactly the same place.
The rag and dowel was an engineered compromise.
She knew how much support she needed from underneath,
and the dowel was good.
Her eggs hatched and fledged and flew last week.
But she’s checking the nest again, as does her mate, every few minutes.
She won’t set if we’re in sight, even from inside the glass door.
She flits from branch to branch of the hornbeam across the road,
her tail twitches constantly, twitches somehow in a circle.
There’s probably a new clutch underway.
Meanwhile, phoebe nest number two is affixed to the handle of our safe.
It was never clear why we acquired a 1300 pound steel and cement safe,
back in Cambridge, Massatussets, back in the day. But we did.
Never clear either why we had to haul it down to our warehouse
in Upper Spring Creek, North Carolina. But we did.
The safe sat by the door, doing nothing, serving no purpose, for 35 years
— until Warehouse Phoebe chose its handle to mount her nest upon.
It began with a few twigs and sprigs gummed together with bird spit and mud,
perched on top of the right-hand door handle.
Gradually, she built higher and wider and deeper.
Until, one day, like a magic trick, one egg appeared.
As a week passed, five eggs, each one perfect as the first.
Some dozen or sixteen days of sitting before, more magic,
five tiny callow creatures pecked through their shells,
bare but for a whisper of down.
The males reappear to help with feeding,
while the chicks grow out some feathers,
even with a little nest-setting;
but mostly, as with the building of the nest, it’s mother’s work.
She flies away from the chicks, as she flew from the eggs,
whenever we come into the building,
returning as we leave.
Probably she’d fight us if we showed any malign intent towards her brood.
But best otherwise to keep herself safe,
their only protector on this earth,
as on airplanes adult humans fix their own masks first.
Seasonal affect.
Sep 8
Alas, the deer do really like the glads.
These are all stubs now after the two does with twins
and the single mother came hungry in the night.
We were allowed to cut a few fronds
before the conversion to venison.
The marigolds stand sentry,
repelling some classes of pests, or so the story goes.
Just pretty in the late afternoon.
Probably there’s no discussion between these two,
just a leaf rolled up and over,
unless it is a snake disguised in molt.
These guys bloom upside down
and close their petals in seeming modesty
most of the hours of the day.
The cosmos bloomed over the tomatoes in gay abandon.
They’re not, apparently, on the approved cervid menu,
unlike nearly everything else.
It isn’t likely the fence offers them much protection.
The pines would mark the middle of a forest of pines
if all the seeds on all the cones struck dirt
and weren’t mowed down and weren’t pushed back
by the equally eager advancing clusters
of locusts, poplars, maples, and oaks.
If flowers were subject to tavern regulations
these petals would snap shut and this stumble bee
be forbidden from loading more pollen.
When they grow beyond supporting ties
and their own strength,
the snapped-off heads may live again,
for a day, as a table bouquet.
Afterwords, with all the ret, they’ll settle
on top of the dead-head heap.
Journey’s end for all the worn blossoms;
many stages yet to pass
in the transition back into the soil
they sprang from,
but their last transits as discrete entities.
Entropy moves in for the easy win
as all the structures degrade and simplify
until an accidental or an intended seed
blows up through the detritus
and declares life’s victory in a fresh year.
It’s Life Only.
Aug 4
Stepping across the branch at the wide place over the quartz
that supports life forms which may or may not
be consuming portions of its essential self.
Some of the mini boulders are so far free
from visible inhabitation
even as the situation of others is impossible to assess.
While on the forest floor below
the mushrooms thrust their caps into light and air.
Oh, there were complaints, all day long, chiefly
from the jays and the thrashers and the catbirds,
but for the second year running,
we got a good share of the blueberries.
Well, to be honest, most of them.
The point, we explain, is that we’re already feeding them
from a dozen feeders, refreshed several times a day.
We left the phoebe nest glommed against the siding
clear of the screen door by a whisper.
Yes, the little gray bits at the top are chick heads and tails.
We’d think we’re entitled to some of what
we’ve tilled and planted and fed and watered.
The deer demur, lean in to help themselves,
but we persist.
The same life forms that digest the rocks also work
on the wood of our porch, beautiful and strange,
as they proffer proof of pretty clean air.
It’s time to sit to spin a spell as the sun settles.
And appreciate the day that has just unwound.
Flutterby.
Aug 3
There’s the strangest mix of ineffable delicacy with ferocity.
Fey things light sometimes and sometimes strike.
From the back, most delicate brushstrokes.
From the front, the apparatus of a working insect.
They’re not fooling around, they get it done.
Solitary, except by random if frequent juxtaposition;
or perhaps directed by a drunken choreographer.
Ontogeny incorporates phylogeny if you look underneath.
Flightpath direct and unafraid,
like a predator, not evading,
just up there, like a wasp, like a hawk.
Viewscape.
Aug 3
Possible alien spacecraft.
Hayrolls from the first cut.
Backing up a bit.
Our western ridge and the next ridge.
Hazy, a little lazy.
Veteran fence posts ever ready for a new deployment.
Uphill past the garden into the orchard.
Annoying brush pile — it’s for the birds.
Wall garden with stone snake-sunning bench.
Energy and entropy wrestled to a tie.
Afternoon Colors.
Aug 3
Passages.
Aug 3
“If you had WMT, what would you do with it?” Oskar Lindland’s butler had just brought a bottle of champagne, poured two flutes, tucked the bottle into the cooling stand, bowed, smiled, and left. Oscar tucked his legs under himself and reached for a glass. His legs were short, his arm were short, but his fingers were long and slender and his eyes sparkled. “Really, Mikala, if you were in charge?”
“Now we’re both millionaires, I suppose we can have champagne every day.” Mikala Banh was a foot taller than Oskar with sharp handsome features. He took a small sip and set the glass on the table beside him. “First of all, I intend to accomplish exactly that, as I suspect you know. Or, as I know you suspected. Are you running against me?”
“No, absolutely not,” Oskar said. “I’ve got a contract to assist through my merger, for eighteen months, just as you do. Then I’m gone —grab my money and run. There’s a dozen ideas I want to develop, not one helped by the encumbrance of a ten billion dollar ball and chain. I can be completely self-funding now, which means I won’t have to be. Liberty, my brother, ceiling unlimited.”
“I’m not seeing WMT as an encumbrance. For me it’s a force-multiplier. I’ve enjoyed being a one-man show and it’s been good to me. But when you paddle away on your single-seat lifeboat, I want to be standing at the bridge of the ship.”
“I get you, I do; but it’s the last thing I want. I work and play best alone.” Oskar said. “Have you considered what you’re up against? This has been a family company for a hundred ten years, give or take. Fifty under the redoubtable Gustav, then sixty of no-less-redoubtable Galliana, who also, effectively, owns the show. When she dies, which can’t be much longer, her shares will not come to you. You’ll never have control the way she does: executive authority plus private ownership. You’d continue at the pleasure of the board, day by day, if you did pull off the miracle of getting the job.”
“You know the basic ownership structure,” Mikala said. “You and I just got a mess of preferred shares as a positive alternative to non-compete clauses. Our fortunes are forever tied to the fortunes of WMT. But actual ownership, actual control, is entirely held by the Wallner family.” He finished his flute and refilled it, topped off Oscar’s. “But do you know the whole reverse tontine deal from 1957, from Gally’s ascension?”
“I thought it was a now-I-have-to-kill-you family-only secret.”
“Supposed to be,” Mikala said, “but I’ve put it together from: here a piece, there a piece. And, you know, analytics. Until Gustav set up the new deal, he owned all the shares, 100%. A few lenders held preferred shares, but Gus had all the common stock. On his death, he decreed each of his four kids would get 20%, with another 20% reserved for the CEO.”
“So Gally has 40% plus 20% from her ever-compliant sister, total control as long as they agree, and they always do; and the two brothers just 20% each, at least Vernon does. I assume Beale’s widow has his share?”
“Except for the other provision.” Mikala was enjoying the unveiling.
“What? Your shares go back into the pool when you die? That would be a tontine, right, last one standing gets it all?”
“I said reverse for a reason. Control doesn’t concentrate, it dissipates. Each child that’s born to one of his children gets 5% of the parent’s share.”
“So Gally, with three kids,” Oskar said, “has lost fifteen of her twenty. She’s down to 5%?”
“Five plus her CEO twenty, plus Lisette’s twenty. So she’s at 45%. Her three children plus three nieces and nephews, six in all, are five percenters. That’s 75%. The remaining 25% is with the brothers: 15% with Beale’s widow, 10% with Vernon.”
“So Gally can be outvoted if everybody gangs up?”
“Her three children have 15%, so two of them would have to join the gang to make 50%. But the CEO’s the tie-breaker. So she’s pretty much impregnable. Unless she was obviously demented and they all wanted her out, something like that.”
“Then the kid’s kids, do they get 1%?” Oskar asked.
“Nope. Stops with Gustav’s grandkids. That’s one reason they’re all on the boat. It’s been fifty years—time to revamp the structure, as provided in the original deal. They can do anything they want by majority vote. Up till now, they needed two-thirds to change anything.”
“According to the original contract, could the CEO shares go out of the family? Like to you?”
“See, pretty fascinating, right? I don’t know.“ Mikala twirled his champagne flute between his fingers. “I don’t have that piece. Maybe it was never considered. But I’d say yes. If Gally had been voted out, say ten years ago, in favor of one of her brothers, it’s clear the brother would have gotten the shares. Goes with the position.”
“Or to a kid of the brothers? Aren’t they the main contenders, besides you? They’d have their own 5%, plus the 20%, plus the parent’s and/or other sibling’s combined 15%, for 40%. If the parents and other kids stuck together. Meanwhile Lisette quietly still has 20% and no heirs. If they could get her agreement, they’ve got 60%. Meanwhile, even if you got Lisette on board you’d still be down at 40%.”
“But add two kids, or one brother, and I’m at 50%. It’s doable.”
“Well, good luck, I suppose. Unless I’m encouraging the one man who could sink a hundred-year-old enterprise with his fatally flawed vision. That would kill my shares, too.”
“I’m a succeeder, my friend, all my life.” Mikala tossed back the last of his champagne and set his flute on the end table.
“So, what would you do?”
“The 21st century, that’s what I’d open up. It’s what I know, obviously, but the machinists of the day after tomorrow aren’t people, they’re robots. It’s already happening. That’s not at issue. We need to make brilliant robots who can run any machine put in front of them, or brilliant machines that operate themselves.”
“WMT folks will tell you, I’ll tell you, ‘yes, but.’ For small applications, simple tasks, short runs, where you don’t want a ten million dollar tool to have consumed all your capital, maybe a lathe is good, a planer, a boring machine.”
“You know the ports on cars, where mechanics plug the diagnostic link? Put one of those on every lathe. A human can still run it, but so can a robot, 24/7, without paying three shifts or overtime. One year, you use the guys in the aprons, the mechanics. Another year, the mechanicals, if your situation warrants. Point is, build no more tools without AI capability.”
“What happens to this model,” Oskar asked, “when my printers replace all the standard tooling processes?”
“Well, you won’t be competing with me, right? So we’ll be making your printers specifically to handle materials other company’s printers can’t. That’s what Gally wanted you for, machine-tool-capable printers. We can go printer to planer or traditional tools to planer, as tolerances demand. We’ll be in front with both because we can print the hardest steels, the toughest composites and because we retain the capacity for purely mechanical build outs.”
“Don’t under value that retro market, Mikala. There will be backwaters around the world, or within developed countries, or again with the small/simple/short jobs. Some customers will be snowed by the grand vision—keep the mechanics and mechanicals bit, that’s good—and some will simply cost it out. The 100k tool versus the 5m tool, the operator salaries versus technician gods, adapting basic machines to different tasks versus .”
“We won’t kill the retro machines, of course not, not immediately. But I’m talking brilliant, remember. Touchscreen controls any fabricator or plant manager can operate, with no further human brilliant input required.”
“You’re not wrong, Mikala. But my advice to you would be, speaking as the WMT shareholder most important to me, don’t get over your skis.”
“It’s not just Europe, Oskar. The revolution is global, and it’s already happening. Japan’s the current leader with a lot of this stuff; China is itching to leapfrog; Russia is dying for a chance at the front of the pack; Israel’s ready; the Arabs are watching, Africa will be behind for another century if they don’t grab the ring, but they can truly take off if they do. Oh, did I mention Europe. And the US.”
“So, today a billion dollar operation. Ten years, ten trillion?”
“The future got here fifteen years ago. We’re just beginning to wake up to it.”
“Man, you’re good. You’ll need some kind of shtick, like the black turtleneck or the gray t-shirt. Five years to the IPO?”
“I’m going to make you so stinking rich, old buddy.”
“Watch your tips, Mikala. And don’t oversell. Too manic a push will call up every retrograde instinct in the very people you have to persuade. WMT is staid, they’ve got to a hundred-ten by a dogged pursuit of mechanical perfection, not by revolutionary leaps.”
“Come with me, Oskar? I need somebody who gets both the inevitable future part and the grounded present reality part.”
“Thanks; seriously, thanks. But, no. I’m finished with industrial fabrication. I’m looking at bioengineering, medical devices, cultured or printed organs, enhanced human performance, extended life, GMO gene printing. My head’s popping, same as yours, but different stuff. I can’t wait to escape the clutches of WMT and get started.”
Mikala refilled their glasses. “Toast, then. To us, to the future, to WMT with me in charge and you set free.”
“Salud, my friend. L’chaim!”
Glory Varieties.
Oct 6
The vines have exploded upwards, blossoms abound.
Pearly Gates White — perhaps you’re old enough to remember?
Not quite the Heavenly Blue.
Is a Rose.
Painted, with many brushes.
And with bug, pollinating, or possibly just passing through.
Evening Glory, a Moon Flower, blooms in the near dark.
Just walking the wraparound of porches, the frame of the house.
Another great giveaway.
Oct 6
Every few months Kindle authors may trade royalties for reaching new readers
from the US, UK, Germany, France, Spain, Italy, Netherlands,
Canada, Mexico, Brazil, India, Japan, and Australia.
And it’s come that time again for the Ellen and Geoffrey Fletcher Mysteries.
Free for the taking, download to any Kindle-enabled device,
all Kindle readers, of course, but computers and tablets and smart phones,
even to a few of the newest ice-makers and gas grills.
The deal runs from Thursday to Monday,
the 4th to the 8th of October, 2018.
A click on either of the first two covers below
will take you to directly to Amazon,
and a free novel.
Clicking on the lower cover images
brings up a free sample chapter from the newer books.
Comments from readers, culled from favorable reviews:
Fit to Curve is a skillfully written mystery with complex characters and such a fascinating plot that I’m way behind on my chores.
This series is a favorite with interesting plots and wonderfully drawn characters. Wish the author would write more of them. The type of book you don’t want to end.
A bed-and-breakfast mystery. Super characters, well developed. You’re waiting for the other shoe to drop. A mouth-watering, good read. Love the old lady with the sharp wit. I’d like the recipes, too. The plot builds very slowly. But once I got into it, I was hooked. I liked the characters, and you get a lot of insight into them.
This is too fine a novel to be mired in the mystery/suspense ghetto. It’s a good mystery, with a complex plot, all the mystery trappings, but the characters are rounded and attractive. The theme seems to me to be a consideration of morality – not just sexual morality (or immorality), though there’s some of that too, for those who like to read such descriptions, but all kinds of morality: for how high a price might you sell your soul?
I think the characters, subtleties, and philosophy make it much more than “just a mystery” or “just a novel”, though the mystery is fine for people who only want that, and the characters and their individual voices or patterns of thought are most thoroughly entwined with with the mysteries, necessary to the story.
Heart Attack is a great read!
This couple are a great addition to the mystery genre. Sharp and interesting with a bit of humor and spice.
Snappy dialog. Geoff and Ellen are a great team. He has a definite intuitive method of assessing info and arriving at conclusions that baffle and irk his cohorts. Ellen is more conventional and together are a great team. Unusual mystery not easily solved.
Ready, but also waiting (the 3rd & 4th titles):
The Atlanta story.
The Charleston story.
Fifth and sixth books in the series:
Drosselmeyer Chronicles (finished, first draft), the Roanoke story,
Just Rewards (current work in progress, ~70%), the Caribbean story.
Sample chapters available right here, www.budcrawford.com
Goodnight Irene
Lead Belly
Irene, good night, Irene, good night
Good night, Irene, good night, Irene
I’ll get you in my dreams
Good night, Irene, good night, Irene
I’ll get you in my dreams
Sometimes I live in the country
Sometimes I live in town
Sometimes I have a great notion
To jump in to the river and drown
Sometimes I live in town
Sometimes I have a great notion
To jump in to the river and drown
Irene, good night, Irene, good night
Good night, Irene, good night, Irene
I’ll get you in my dreams
Good night, Irene, good night, Irene
I’ll get you in my dreams
Stop rambling and stop gambling
Quit staying out late at night
Go home to your wife and your family
Sit down by a fireside bright
Quit staying out late at night
Go home to your wife and your family
Sit down by a fireside bright
Irene, good night, Irene, good night
Good night, Irene, good night, Irene
Good night, Irene, good night, Irene
Songwriters: Huddie Ledbetter / John A. Lomax
Goodnight Irene lyrics © T.R.O. Inc.
There are flowers, of course, in all colors,
all around, in pots, and planters, and plots,
but it’s green when you look out or look up,
high in the temperate rainforest
of Western North Carolina.
Drastic escalation this year
in the battle over blueberries,
the outnumbered humans versus the birds,
the jays, the catbirds, especially the thrashers.
We won by draping mesh cages over the bushes
and over ourselves while picking,
four nets 25 foot square,
scheduled to amortize against berry value by 2028.
Meanwhile, on basically the same amortization plan,
but now with a vegetable patch behind it,
our rockwall garden thrives
and we can dial up the sun anytime we want.
That’s water at the top, running under the bridge,
but the bridge hosts a rock festooned with cinnamon lichen.
All that black plastic was a weed barrier
stretched over the bank, temporarily, 30 years ago.
It ripped as time went by,
blew apart, got brittle
while we pondered on the wall we wanted to watch
from the kitchen window
instead of the unstable bank rank with weedy stuff.
In December just past,
a mason began the real work
and three decades vanished in three months
despite dodging the dodgy snows and freezy rains
that have marked our ascent, this year, into spring.
A solid as rocks, the bottom grew up
to a shelf all the way across
with a backing and the beginning of terraced beds.
For spring and birthday and Easter
and a place in one of those beds
a calla lily waits out our most recent freeze.
The plastic, meanwhile, ripped away in minutes,
the rocks set, the beds turned down,
and plant chocolates placed on the pillowed ground.
It’s a matter of mulch, now, and compost, and setting out plants.
Most of the rocks came from the mud-daubed chimney,
a hundred years old when we took it down,
rock by rock, passed hand to hand,
out of the very center of the house,
and piled it, 40 years ago,
a careful heap, become a mine
of flat and stackable native stone.
But a dozen of the stones
are hunks of crystal quartz harvested
from the branch
worked in just for magic.
Meanwhile, the unruly grass rises everywhere
not impressed by late frosts
or a little dusting of April snow.
Ah, but the mower has a new 135″ belt
and I a new shoulder.
We shall prevail,
for one more year.
in one more month.
At first glance there wasn’t much to engage with.
or to care about.
You will have to click on the image to enlarge it
unless your eyes are far better than mine
— possibly in another tab to keep on reading.
Democrats on average like Pelosi and Obama;
Republicans are still fond of Mitt Romney;
nobody doesn’t like nurses.
Quelle suprise.
Belatedly, my two-dimensional sight cut in.
Democrats, in blue below the diagonal, do like Pelosi: well, a 6.5/10 level of like.
Republicans at the same time do quite hate her, 1.5/10 worth.
NRA gets 2.5 from Democrats (really?)
and 7.25 from Republicans.
It’s the political brain of the United States on one chart
pulsating and burbling while you watch.
I’d like to see a few hundred more data points,
but I’m not sure what would become of my own brain.
Thanks to Larry Bartels, Vanderbilt University.
It looks like something more exotic,
perhaps more naughty, than it is:
a simple x-ray after reparative surgery.
I am become a compound thing
of flesh and bone surrounding
titanium capped in polished cobalt chrome
on the humerus (arm) side,
while teflon restores the well-worn socket
of the glenoid (body) side.
The brief black line in the teflon
is a metal pin inserted
purely for x-ray reading,
for the surgeon’s reckoning,
because the plastic is, like flesh, invisible.
Three weeks since the surgery
plus three weeks more to go
of wearing the sling, all night, all day.
Three months minimum of physical therapy
and then as good as new, maybe,
at least without the wincing and weird sound
of bone grinding bone, wearing both bones down.
Fascinating and wonderful, it is truly,
and gratitude-inducing
except during sulky bouts of self pity
and instances of genuine pain.
Must I really have to learn so much
it was never my intention to know?