March Short Stories and More
WHAT I’VE BEEN UP TO
So … in between working on the third Erica Jensen novel, writing various screenplays, blogging, vlogging, and trying to make a short film (and, of course, podcasting), I’ve tried to write a few short stories and essays, now and then.
This story is something I wrote a couple of years ago. Quite clearly. :)
This is essentially a rough draft, in that I’m publishing it here without benefit of an editor, copyeditor, or proofreader’s review.
2021
by Debbi Mack
The pandemic was tough, but her gardening kept her busy. From where she sat on the porch, she surveyed the yard, pausing to gaze at the bed of red and yellow tulips, planted only last fall, now bursting with color. The setting sun cast striped shadows across them. She knew her family also appreciated them.
Nonetheless, as she surveyed the walls of towering arborvitae looming around the backyard, she couldn't help feeling as if they were closing in on her.
Despite the warm breeze, she felt a slight chill, for which she chided herself. She had no reason to feel … what? Trapped? No. Safe and sound she was, with a roof over her head and a bed with a pillow to lay it on. Shaking mild dread off like a dog, she rose and entered the house.
In the kitchen, as she filled the kettle to make tea, the water pressure lowered to a near dribble. She barely managed to gather a cup.
She considered her options and reckoned a call to the local water and sewer utility would be best. She placed the call and, after punching buttons through a short series of automated options, got voice mail and left a message.
Five minutes later, as she poured hot water over a cupped tea bag, the phone rang. She checked the caller ID. A county number. Official. She answered.
"Mrs. Enright?" A man's voice. Like a cop’s voice. For a moment, she stopped breathing.
“Yes?” She kept her tone light as she spoke.
“Trent Harris, from the water and sewer commission, getting back to you. I’m sorry to say this, but the problem seems to be limited to your house. Unfortunately, this will require we dig up part of your property. Normally, we don’t handle projects on private property, but …”
She tuned him out briefly, then spoke up. “How soon will you be here?”
“We’re required to give forty-eight hours’ notice,” he said. “But we can arrange to be there sooner. As I was saying, there’s an easement—”
“I know about the easement.” She spat the lie and felt instant regret at her surge of anger. But, in fact, she’d forgotten all about it. She took a moment to calm herself.
“In that case,” she added, her tone apologetic. She glanced at the calendar and tried to remember what day it was. Tuesday. Right. “Could you come by on Thursday? In the afternoon?” She struggled to sound welcoming.
“Sure. If you prefer.” He sounded a bit surprised. She bit her lip and mentally cursed herself again.
Forcing a smile, she said, “Would you believe I store gallon bottles of water, in case of emergencies?” Her voice rose in pitch, squeaking up on the last word. Her heart thumped. Her smile froze. “I live alone. I like to be prepared.”
After they settled on the arrival day and time window, she disconnected and pondered the situation. She wasn't sure whether she was more upset by the need to destroy her beautiful flower garden or the notion that she was entirely alone.
Wasting no time, she gathered her tools—an LED lamp mounted on a stretchy head band, gardening gloves, latex gloves, her shovel, and of course, her ever-present mask—and waited for darkness to fall. Thank God for the arborvitae, she thought.
Google Earth told her the location still worked. The one she’d chosen for them. Before she realized she couldn’t let them go. The area was still barren of development and likely to remain so, since it was zoned as a buffer from it.
Her lukewarm tea forgotten, she gazed mournfully at her tulips. They didn't matter, but losing her family did.
Now she had to go and dig them all up again.
THE END
NEW RELEASES IN MARCH
Excerpt from Watch Where They Hide by Tamron Hall. Now on sale!
CHAPTER ONE
Thursday, February 5, 2009
“Jordan? Jordan. If you would, please, follow me. Watch your step. Be careful. It’s not well lit.”
The massive warehouse in the heart of the former meatpack-ing district was still cold enough to hang meat even though Squalli and Sons had long ago shuttered its doors, leaving workers who had labored long, thankless hours to supply steaks and chops to some of Chicago’s best restaurants to find new work, if they could get it.
“Okay, stop here,” the raspy voice ordered.
My toes lined up exactly in the middle of the yellow tape pressed onto the bumpy cement floor. “Is this it?” I asked.
“Yes. Don’t move.”
I noticed some people in the crowd gazing up from their tasks to watch me awkwardly try and adjust to the right spot.
“Close your eyes for a sec.” A whiff of air blew across my forehead as the bristles of a brush floated down to my nose.
“Ah! You moved,” said the man, even more animated and antsy as he placed his body between me and the makeup artist. “Jordan, take a tiny step to the left. Good. This is the perfect spot to get the best camera angle. Don’t move.”
Don’t move?
I could tell, four hours into my Justice Jordan promo shoot, the director’s patience with multiple wardrobe changes—that jacket, but not this lipstick; a camisole versus a button-down blouse—had him fidgeting and anxious to get started. Ellen Holbrook, my assistant news editor, assured me this promo-tional campaign would catapult me and the investigative unit to the next level.
“A promo like this is a big, big deal, Jordan,” she said. “You know there are no favors in this business. You’re the lead investigative crime reporter now. The A1. You’ve covered some of the biggest stories in the city. You’ve earned it!”
Ellen proved herself to be the ultimate hype person at the shoot, hovering around to cheer me on and keep the nervous-ness from showing on my face. The camera catches it all. There’s no hiding from the lens; it doesn’t lie. When she wasn’t poring over every line of the script, she was going back and forth to the two long folding tables piled high with assorted pastries, sandwiches and cheeses, a massive crab salad, and a chicken pasta that would be perfect to pack up for dinner to-night. Clark Catering, a local female-owned business, was just featured on our Best of Chicago segment and didn’t disappoint. Someone even brought a legendary Eli’s cheesecake. I bet it was Ellen. She knows it’s my weakness.
In my four years at Channel 8, Ellen and I have formed somewhat of a sisterly bond. She was just as likely to critique my work as that of anyone else at the station, but she never tore me down to bring me down. She was a straight shooter with me and other women in the building, a good leader. But with those of us on the air, she didn’t mince words. The extra scrutiny female talent has to put up with can be cruel and downright demoralizing in a way I think people don’t fully grasp.
I caught my reflection in a full-length mirror. I definitely made the right choice, wearing a sheath dress with a strong blazer, the perfect balance of femininity and business. “It’s like a fashion mullet. The dress is the party in the front, the jacket, the business in the back,” I explained to Ellen, who was thor-oughly amused, which is saying a lot for her. I’ve noticed when other people are around, she goes into her own code-switch mode and tries to present herself a certain way.
“Hey, Jordan. Look at these.” The photographer hired for the shoot switched on his camera’s LCD screen and shared some candids. He had been trailing me all afternoon but noticeably steered clear of the director, who was prepared to put up with my being indecisive and visibly uncomfortable with all of this, but that courtesy was not extended to others.
“Just a few more, Jordan. Can you look over here?” the photographer asked. “Turn just a little more toward me. Smile. Hold it.”
This level of investment by the station came with a price. The yellow gaffer tape, the exact hue of crime scene tape, could mark the spot where my career died, too, if this campaign didn’t spike ratings or bring Channel 8 enough attention to win a local Emmy.
“Where did you just go, Jordan?” the director sharply asked, snapping his fingers in my line of sight. “Come back.”
“Sorry, Raphie.”
The director’s name was Raphael Navarro, but after this long day, I felt we were close enough to give him a nickname.
“I can’t believe all of this is happening. It’s been crazy.”
“All the attention?” he replied, confused.
“Yes. The attention, the expectations. It’s a lot.”
Raphie was perplexed. He was used to people being thrilled to be on-camera . . . to have this kind of a fuss made over them.
“Isn’t this why you got into the business?” he asked. “Actually . . . no.”
“Turn this way and fold your arms,” he said.
“Please, no folded arms. Why are all the promo pictures of female anchors like this?” I demonstrated the classic pose. “I’m confused. What is this supposed to convey?”
Ellen sounded off behind me. “Hey, Jordan, the quicker you give him the shot, the sooner we can have drinks.”
“Ooohh, Ellen. That was the motivation I was looking for.” I had been warned that these shoots could go on forever—a lot of hurry up and wait. I just didn’t realize standing in place could be so exhausting. We wrapped just short of six hours, which didn’t include the two extra hours for hair and makeup. The energy of finally being outside brought new life to us both. I coveted Ellen’s more practical choice of footwear, a pair of brown suede boots she scored at DSW. She loved reminding me how much money I wasted buying shoes at full price. But “never pay full price” was my middle name. It also was my little secret that I conveniently withheld.
“What time is it?” I asked Ellen, one of the few people I knew who still wore a wristwatch. Her afinity for nostalgia, I surmised long ago, was part of what made her so good at her job. The integrity required to lead newsrooms was not talked about nearly enough at the journalism conferences I’d attended over the years. Instead, panelists espoused the power of the anchorman, but the men who hired those men—and they are always men—don’t get called out often enough or in the way they should. I’ve watched some of them lurk around the news-room slapping their top-dog evening anchor on the back as they all wink and nod and peer salaciously at just about every woman in the room. I’ve heard stories of news directors rating on-air women and even interns like a bunch of frat boys. These same men then pretend to be outraged when an executive gets called out as a serial sexual predator and becomes front-page news. They are as much to blame for the huge pay gap between women and men in the business as the general managers are. And don’t get me started on the stories they deem newsworthy. A white guy in his fifties making seven figures may not be as likely to have his finger on the pulse of what is relevant. Ellen was a rare breed. No matter how successful she can and no doubt will become, fairness was her fuel and true, honest report-ing, her north star.
“It’s five-forty. Still want that drink?” she asked. “Absolutely! There’s a cute little wine bar on Randolph. It was in the entertainment kicker on our morning show today. It’s just a couple blocks up,” I said.
Feet sore from traipsing around in stilettos, I navigated along the uneven cracked concrete and loose debris booby-trapping the sidewalks. I didn’t recognize my own neighborhood at this time of day. Newly minted techies who had recently descended on the area jostled past me. They were easy to spot in their graphic hoodies and tees and designer sneakers, rushing from workplaces with fully stocked refrigerators of hydrating soft drinks, never to experience the frustration of digging for loose change to purchase underwhelming snacks from a vending machine. By the time we arrived, the once-obscure little wine bar was already packed with them, proving once again that there was no more efficient free advertising than a worthy mention on a television news morning show.
“Looks like we made it just in time for happy hour,” Ellen said.
“Shh, don’t say that too loudly,” I said. “I thought happy hour could get you arrested.”
One of the most shocking things I learned about Illinois when I first moved here was the crazy ban on “happy hour.” Though drunken driving deaths were a valid concern, the legislation banning the after-work pastime seemed like a ghost of Chicago’s Prohibition past. In Austin, Texas, where I grew up, “happy hour” was practically government sanctioned.
I scanned the tiny bar for a comfy, cozy seat. A velvet couch in the back was already taken.
“Look!” Ellen pointed. “There are two seats at the end of the bar. Let’s grab ’em.”
We had barely sat down when an older gentleman walked over and placed two cocktail napkins in front of us. He looked a tad out of place in a hip new millennial hot spot. He reminded me of a bartender at one of Chicago’s old-school steakhouses.
“He-e-y- , Jordan Manning! Nice to see you, young lady. Welcome to Doc’s!”
“Hello there. Why, thank you!”
I’ll never get used to people actually recognizing me because they have watched my work. It’s a head trip.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“I’m Sam. Pleased to meet you,” he said, offering his hand. “Nice to meet you, Sam.”
“What would you like?”
“I’ll have the espresso martini and she’ll have . . .”
“. . . a Chardonnay,” Ellen said, “though not your best Chardonnay. Something in the mid-price range for me is fine.”
“Okay, ladies. Coming up.”
I swung the barstool around to face Ellen and tried to create our own little VIP section. We had a lot to talk about and I didn’t want anyone eavesdropping on us.
“Still saving up for that trip to Ireland?” I asked.
“Yeah, this fall. I finally earned enough vacation to go for nine days without using all my time off for the year,” she said.
“That’s exciting!”
“I know. I can’t wait. So what about you? Any trips coming up?” “Uh, yeah, actually. My best friend’s getting married in Saugatuck in May.”
“You’re the maid of honor?” Ellen asked. “Yes, which means I have responsibilities.”
“Then, my dear, that’s not a vacation. That’s work.”
Lisette wanted what she wanted. Her vision for the perfect wedding was so specific that she barely let anyone lift a finger to help, including me.
“No, I don’t really see it that way. I’m looking forward to it. It’ll be interesting to see two families and groups of friends coming together. Her fiancé is white; he grew up in California. And I mean he personifies beach-boy culture. Blond, blue eyes, swimmer’s build.”
“He sounds dreamy,” Ellen said. “How’d they meet?”
“They met in Saugatuck, actually. Lisette and I went there for the weekend and stayed at a rental on the beach. Mike, that’s his name, and a friend of his from Italy, in fact, were visiting that weekend, too. Their connection was instant, you know. They don’t live in the same city but somehow kept things going, even while he was working outside of the country for a few months.”
“And they say long-distance relationships never work,” Ellen said.
“Well, if you really love someone, a few thousand miles shouldn’t be the thing that gets in the way of your happiness.”
Dating long distance was always exciting in the beginning. Cards, letters, gifts and flowers, and hours spent talking on the phone. After a while, it simply wasn’t enough and ended with the sad realization that one or neither of you were willing to make the sacrifices necessary to be together. Lisette and Mike were outliers, but there was a part of me that felt that maybe this was all happening a little too fast.
“So what was up with Mike’s friend? Was he cute? Did you two stay in touch?” Ellen asked.
“Adorable. But like you said, most long-distance relationships don’t survive, so it wasn’t worth pursuing. Besides, an international lover isn’t on my wish list.”
Sam returned and sat down two glasses with generous pours, smiling wryly. “Enjoy, ladies.”
Ellen held up her glass. “Wow! A bowl of wine. Way to flirt, Sam. Must be nice to have fans. I need to go out with you more often.”
“You think he’s flirting with me? He’s old enough to be my father,” I said.
“And when has that ever stopped them,” Ellen muttered. “To Justice Jordan.” Ellen held up her glass.
“To true love,” I said.
“Salud.” Ellen lightly tapped my glass. “So what are you work-ing on these days?”
“You really know how to kill a vibe, don’t you?”
“Sorry.”
“No, it’s okay. I’ve been getting a lot of calls on the hotline, but nothing is fleshed out yet. I’m still waiting for the big one.” One of the things I loved most about the investigative unit was the autonomy. I didn’t have to check in as often with the brass until I had something worth reporting.
“Well, you just watch. This Justice Jordan promo is going to cement your reputation in Chicago,” Ellen said, her head bob-bing as if the physical gesture made her words even more true. “In this city, you’re oficially a part of broadcast history.”
Ellen was still in hype mode. Her enthusiasm was endearing, but she didn’t understand that from my point of view, the new promo would place an even bigger target on my back, in and out of the newsroom. The people who believed I was the pathway to a ratings boost were no longer in the minority.
“And oficially responsible for boosting the ratings,” I added. “Hmm,” said Ellen, shifting her head to the side, feigning deep thought. “That part is true.” She giggled. “But look, you finally have a chance to have a life. To travel, to fall in love. Heck, to get a dog.”
I laughed. “No thanks. Can you see me with a dog?”
Ellen’s smile faded into a more serious expression, and I got the feeling some sisterly advice was forthcoming.
“What?”
“Jordan, you’re a beautiful, vibrant young woman. Live like one.”
*****
On sale March 12 , 2024, as an ebook or in print.
Two-time Emmy® Award-winning journalist and author Tamron Hall is Executive Producer and host of the nationally syndicated talk show “Tamron Hall.” “Tamron Hall” is currently the second longest-running Disney-produced syndicated talk show and continues to be one of television’s highest-rated daytime shows. Tamron’s extensive resume also includes hosting “Deadline: Crime with Tamron Hall” on Investigation Discovery, “TODAY” and “MSNBC Live with Tamron Hall.”
She received the 2015 Edward R. Murrow Award for her segment on domestic violence as part of “TODAY’s Shine A Light” series. An outspoken advocate for shedding light on domestic abuse, Hall has partnered with Safe Horizon to launch The Tamron❤Renate Fund in honor of her sister to help victims and families affected by domestic violence.
Also just out as of March 12:
A Case for the Ladies Release Day #giveaway
I could tell you about all the research I did, who the chicks on the case are, the kinds of of crimes that went on in 1926 Boston, food and drink of the era, and more, but I’ve written blog posts that appear (or will appear) elsewhere on those topics (see the full list with links at my web site).
Instead, let me share how this book came to be. I’ve been working on it for years. I’d already developed alternate histories for my two grandmothers as lady PIs in 1920 Pasadena (I had ideas about using Dorothy in fiction brewing even in 2017).
Read the rest here.
OTHER MARCH RELEASES
March 5
**The Haunting of Velkwood by Gwendolyn Kiste.
**Ellipses by Vanessa Lawrence.
The Last Verse by Caroline Frost.
What Grows in the Dark by Jaq Evans.
The Berlin Letters by Katherine Reay.
The Far Side of the Desert by Joanne Leedom-Ackerman.
March 12
The Other Lola by Ripley Jones.
March 19
Rainbow Black by Maggie Thrash.
The Best Way to Bury Your Husband by Alexia Casale.
Good Half Gone by Tarryn Fisher.
Has Anyone Seen Charlotte Salter? by Nicci French.
March 24
March 26
**What Happened to Nina? by Dervla McTiernan.
Everyone is Watching by Heather Gudenkauf.
How to Solve Your Own Murder by Kristen Perrin.
March 27
Every Single Secret by Christina Dodd.
** Currently reading
FROM AROUND THE WEB
The First Two Pages: “The Home Front” by Charles Ardai.
"A Toe For Jesus” by John Weagly.
RECENT BOOK REVIEWS
My Book Review of ‘The Murder Wheel’.
My Book Review of 'The Excitements'.
FROM MY ARCHIVES
‘Songs of Innocence’ Hits the Right Notes
(originally published on April 13, 2008)
Richard Aleas' latest book, SONGS OF INNOCENCE (Hard Case Crime, 2007), is a great hardboiled crime novel with a basic good-guy protagonist, John Blake. Retreating from the tough world of private investigation to the realm of academia, after suffering some traumatic events in connection with a case (which I presume was the subject of the preceding novel, LITTLE GIRL LOST), Blake nonetheless gets drawn back into danger when a vulnerable young girl he's befriended is found dead in her bathtub of an apparent suicide.
Convinced that she didn't kill herself, Blake starts investigating her death, and in doing so, attracts the attention of a dangerous criminal element and, eventually, the police. Richard Aleas (the nom de plume of Charles Ardai, founder of Hard Case Crime) ratchets up the pace and suspense in this dark, disturbing tale that ends on a noir twist that will leave readers gasping with surprise.
‘Stalking Death’ is a Suspenseful Delight
(originally published on May 5, 2008)
I was fortunate enough to buy an early release copy of STALKING DEATH (The Mystery Company 2008), part of the Thea Kozak mystery series by Kate Flora, when I attended Malice Domestic a couple of weekends ago. It's an absorbing read.
Thea Kozak is the "crisis expert" in the private school consulting firm that she and her partner operate. In this story, Shondra Jones, a black female student at St. Matthew's prep school, claims she's being harassed by a male student. When Kozak shows up to handle the situation, she's given a less-than-enthusiastic reception from the people she's trying to help. It seems the alleged stalker is the grandson of one of the school's major donors. So guess how anxious they are to punish the stalker--not very.
Before you know it, someone is murdered and Jones' brother is accused of committing the crime. But there's a whole lot more going on at St. Matt's than meets the eye. And it's up to Kozak to figure it out so she can do her job and try to protect Shondra (who has become a target, because she refuses to drop her complaints against the school). In doing so, Kozak puts herself squarely in harm's way and must keep on her toes to stay alive.
With a dry wit and fine-tuned sense of the ambiguities of dealing with people, Flora does a great job of exploring the difficulties of being a consultant--the outsider who must look behind her clients' bland representations and challenge their complacent attitudes in order to get the job done. I can't help but be reminded of when I was practicing law and had to see through what clients told me to understand their true agendas. Flora's previous career as an attorney no doubt contributes to her keen understanding of what it's like to have clients lie to you and balk at taking advice they don't want to hear.
The story is well-structured and engaging, building in suspense and tension as Shondra and Kozak face one peril after another, until it reaches a nail-biting climax.
Flora also does a great job of weaving in enough detail about previous books in the series to bring you up-to-speed about what's come before without dragging the plot down with excessive detail--giving one all the more reason to go back and read them, as well.
Review: ‘Story’ by Robert McKee
(originally posted on May 7, 2009)
There are a lot of books about writing out there and they're great for various reasons. Anne LaMott's BIRD BY BIRD, for example, is a great book about what it's like to be a writer, as well as how to write (but mostly what the writing life is like). I've heard Stephen King's book ON WRITING is good, though I still haven't read it. And I found Carolyn Wheat's book, HOW TO WRITE KILLER FICTION particularly useful as a crime fiction author. And there are other books on writing that I've liked.
However, I just finished a book that taught me more, in greater detail, about storytelling than I've ever gotten from any other source. STORY by Robert McKee may be intended for screenwriters, but it has a lot to offer novelists.
The book analyzes the classic three-act story structure, explaining how each act is made up of a series of shots (like I said, it's intended for screenwriters) that create scenes, knit together into sequences. But it also covers the techniques for propelling a story along (no matter what the format). It discusses character and dialogue--again, with emphasis on the cinematic. But there's still something in the discussion for everyone. It even explores theme--and how it's expressed in all the visual details in a scene (among other things).
Let's put it this way--any book that can get endorsements from film and TV screenwriters AND a novelist must be something special. Although the book focuses on screenwriting, it also compares that form to prose fiction and plays. Understanding the differences gives you insight, as well.
And the bottom line is that no matter what kind of story you want to tell or media you want to use to tell it, this book will help.
I got a copy from the library. I intend to buy one for future reference. (Not something I do every day with a book like this.)
Take care and be seeing you! :)