Today, we're doing something a little different. This is our 16th guest author interview on the Marie Lavender's Books! blog, and fellow author Susan Lynn Solomon is visiting us.
Hello!
Hi. Thank you for letting me visit.
Of course! It’s such a pleasure to have you here. :)
Can you tell us a little bit about your latest book? When did it come out and where can we get it?
I tell people The Magic
of Murder is a mystery with a sense of humor. How else can I explain a story
in which the narrator, Emlyn Goode, has just learned she’s a direct descendant
of Sarah Goode, who in 1692 was hanged as a witch in Salem? How else can I
describe the hefty (Elvira has a snit if someone calls her fat) albino cat that
pushes Emlyn into a situation she might not survive?
The story is set in
Niagara Falls, the place which after years of wandering has become my home.
Emlyn’s neighbor, Roger Frey, is a police detective who would like to be more
than her friend—very much more. Another of Emlyn’s friends, Rebecca Nurse,
whose ancestor took a “short drop” next to Sarah Goode on Gallows Hill, thinks
she should forget her past, and let him. Apparently, so does the cat. When
Roger’s partner is murdered, Rebecca sees a chance to bring them together. She
encourages Emlyn to use spells found in Sarah Goodes' 'Book of Shadows'—a diary of
a sort in which the old woman had also written her secret desires—to unmask the
killer. But, as Emlyn says, she’s new to this witch stuff. Still, much to
Roger’s chagrin, aided by Rebecca—who isn’t much better at it—and prodded by
Elvira, Emlyn tries. Of course, neither Emlyn, Rebecca, nor the cat takes into
account the unintended and unexpected side-effects of these spells.
With this as a base, you
can imagine what I’ve put these poor people through. I still laugh when I think
of it.
Oh, yes. I nearly
forgot. The Magic of Murder was released just before last Halloween (of
course), and it can be found in both a Kindle and a paperback edition at Amazon.
How exciting! I love a good witch story. :)
So, is there anything that prompted your book? Something that inspired you?
What led to The Magic
of Murder—promise not to laugh. It started with a dare.
I’m a member of the Just
Buffalo Literary Center Writer’s Critique Group. This is a great group of
authors, led by Gary Earl Ross, an Edgar Award-winning writer of mysteries. One
evening Gary and I were discussing a short story I’d written. After a few
moments he asked why I hadn’t tried my hand at a mystery. I explained that
though I’ve loved the mystery genre since my mother handed her 11-year-old
child Agatha Christie’s Peril at End House, I’d never been able to plot one.
Gary stared at me in a way, I must admit, made me a bit nervous. Then he dared
me to try. Damn! I’ve never been smart enough to turn down a dare.
But that’s not the whole
of it. You see, my sister loves the genre as much as I do. When I told her of
the dare, she poked and prodded as only a younger sister can, until I
surrendered. Having given my solemn promise I’d write two chapters a week and
read them to her each Sunday afternoon, I set to work. In two months the first
draft was finished. Of course, I refused to read her the last chapter—the place
in which who did it and why is revealed. I told her she could wait until the
book was published… What? It’s a big sister’s job to drive her sibling to the
brink. Isn’t it?
Well, it certainly seems to be! I'm the youngest sibling, so I can certainly attest to that.
And that's quite the origin story for your book.
When did you know you wanted to write? Or has it always been a pastime of yours?
I’ve always written. As
a young child, I kept a notebook in which I put down the strangest fantasies I
could dream up (I have no idea what happened to that notebook—I suspect my
parents found and read it, and decided to burn it before I actually tried
something I wrote). When I got to high school, my interest in prose waned a
bit. I learned to play the guitar, and began to write songs. Through high
school, I performed with rock bands, and continued to do this through college. I
still write a song now and then. After college I traveled with my band,
performing all over the United States. After a while I realized I wouldn’t
become the superstar of my childhood fantasy, so I gave up the band, and
entered law school. Then my writing took a different turn: contracts, business
letters, proposals…yawn!
This continued for more
than twenty years, until I was in a bad car accident. Two years of
recovery—going back to practicing law was more than I could bear. I gave up
law, and found work writing feature articles (and anything else they asked of
me) for the quarterly magazine, Sunstorm Fine Art. Now my passion for writing
was rekindled. Besides the articles, I wrote a number of short stories, and I
haven’t stopped telling those lies.
Don’t look at me that
way, isn’t a writer of fiction just a professional liar?
LOL. Well, you could say that. ;)
So...do you
have any favorite authors?
After what I said at the
beginning, could it be anyone but Agatha Christie? I’ve read everything Dame
Agatha wrote. Hercule Poirot. Miss Marple. I’ve read their tales over and over,
and never get tired of them. I’ve also gotten the complete set of Poirot and
Marple DVDs that aired on the BBC. And tonight, hmm…now that I’m thinking of
it, a bowl of popcorn and I’ll snuggle under my blanket to again watch the
cases of the famous Belgian detective (don’t call him French, Hercule doesn’t
like that). Maybe I’ll even learn a creative new way to murder people.
And for paranormal, I’ve
grabbed everything written by Anne Rice. She has a way of making even the most
unbelievable circumstance ring true.
And I have a few new
writers whose works I’m enjoying: Frederick Crook, Maighread MacKay, AB Funkhauser,
and for a bit of romance with a twist, you, Marie Lavender.
All right. Just to let you know, we're curious.
Do you write in a specific place? Or time of day?
Actually, I write
any place I happen to be. I carry my writer’s journal with me, and write
character sketches about people I see; I describe the places I’m at; and, oh,
yes, I jot down pieces of overheard conversations. Sometimes that last thing
has gotten me into a tad of trouble. Apparently, people object to having a
stranger listen to their private conversations—and restaurants don’t approve of
someone upsetting other customers. Go figure. Guess my father was right when
he’d say I was always “up to no good”. Yet I continue to do it. You see, this
is how I learn the way people speak, their mannerisms when they talk, their
accents, and the flow of their words.
But turning these notes
into stories, I do at my computer in a corner of my bedroom. This is my private 'thinking' place. I write any time of day, every spare moment. You see, writing
is more than my greatest pleasure, it’s become a need, a passion. Mornings,
evenings, days off from work, this is where you’ll find me.
That's great! And I totally get the 'observation thing'. More than once, I've received those strange looks. Now I just try not to draw attention to it.
Susan, are there any words you'd like to impart to fellow writers? Any advice?
The best advice I can
give fellow writers is to read voraciously. Read everything. See how others ply
our craft. Learn from them. This is the way we continue to grow as writers. Then
find a group of talented writers to share your work with. Comments from the
writers in my group have lifted my prose and helped my see what my stories are
really about.
That's great advice! Thank you for your words of wisdom.
And thank you so much for stopping by! It was such a pleasure to have you here. :)
Readers, here is the blurb for The Magic of Murder.
When his partner is discovered in a frozen alley with eight bullets in
his chest, Niagara Falls Police Detective Roger Frey swears vengeance.
But Detective Chief Woodward has forbidden him or anyone else on the
detective squad to work the case. Emlyn Goode knows Roger will disobey
his boss, which will cost him his job and his freedom. Because she cares
for him more than she’ll admit, she needs to stop him. Desperate, she
can think of but one way.
Emlyn recently learned she’s a direct descendant of a woman hanged as a witch in 1692. She has a book filled with arcane recipes and chants passed down through her family. Possessed of, or perhaps by a vivid imagination, she intends to use these to solve Jimmy’s murder before Roger takes revenge on the killer. But she’s new to this “witch thing,” and needs help from her friend Rebecca Nurse, whose ancestor also took a short drop from a Salem tree. Rebecca’s not much better at deciphering the ancient directions, and while the women stumble over spell after spell, the number of possible killers grows. When Chief Woodward’s wife is shot and a bottle bomb bursts through Emlyn’s window, it becomes clear she’s next on the killer’s list.
Emlyn recently learned she’s a direct descendant of a woman hanged as a witch in 1692. She has a book filled with arcane recipes and chants passed down through her family. Possessed of, or perhaps by a vivid imagination, she intends to use these to solve Jimmy’s murder before Roger takes revenge on the killer. But she’s new to this “witch thing,” and needs help from her friend Rebecca Nurse, whose ancestor also took a short drop from a Salem tree. Rebecca’s not much better at deciphering the ancient directions, and while the women stumble over spell after spell, the number of possible killers grows. When Chief Woodward’s wife is shot and a bottle bomb bursts through Emlyn’s window, it becomes clear she’s next on the killer’s list.
Here is an excerpt from the novel.
March brought a worse storm than the one we were hit with
in December. It seems that’s how we celebrate St. Patrick’s Day around here.
When it ended
after four days, a reserve unit from the Niagara Falls Air Base declared war on
the snow. With military precision, the reservists piled the stuff into dump
trucks and carted it to Lake Ontario, Lake Erie, and the Canal. They might have
hauled it to the top of the mountains if their trucks’ tires could get enough
traction. Since they couldn’t, it appeared as though they shoved what was left
to the shoulder of River Road and into my driveway. When I gazed through the
kitchen window at gray heaps so high my mailbox was buried, I was certain the
dunes would still be there in July. They weren’t, of course. In two days the
streets had been plowed and salted, and cars crawled past. Thanks to my
neighbor, Roger Frey, even my driveway had been cleared. In Western New York, we
know how to deal with the white stuff.
My preferred way of dealing with it is
to turn up the thermostat and remain inside, comfy and warm. At least until the
sun pokes through the clouds. This is why, still in my robe and flannel pajamas
with thermal socks pulled up to my knees, I was snuggled on the sofa under my
grandmother’s grey wool afghan. I still wondered about the runes Grandma had
sewn into the afghan. Maybe one day Rebecca Nurse would find a book to help me
interpret them.
From a corner of what had become her wingback chair, the hefty albino
cat—Elvira detested it when I referred to her as fat—glared at me. She seemed
annoyed I was wasting the morning on a made for TV movie.
“What?” I said to her.
She rolled her eyes—well, that’s what it
looked like to me.
“Give me a break, will you?” I said. “I
was up half the night writing.”
She snorted.
“What do you mean I didn’t write
anything that mattered?”
She tilted her head.
I shifted on the sofa and bent toward
her. “I’m not bullshitting you!” My voice went up an octave. “You were there.
You saw what I was—”
At the very moment I realized the cat
had again drawn me into an argument, I heard a knock on my front door. My face
hot—from anger at Elvira or embarrassment at letting her get the better of the
argument?—I jumped from the sofa and yanked the door open.
“What?” I demanded with a sharp edge to
my voice.
On my door stoop stood a black quilted
jacket, green rubber boots laced over baggy jeans, a flannel scarf wound around
the little I could see of a face, and a knit cap pulled so low on a head the
figure looked like a cartoon character with no ears. The man on the stoop might
have been a predator who intended to break into my home, ravish my body, and
make off with my treasures. Okay, I’ve already admitted I have an active
imagination. There are no treasures in my home, and my body—well, let’s just
say it’s been a long time since anyone would risk jail for ravishing me.
Besides, I knew who this was. Earlier, while I poured my coffee, through the window
I’d watched my neighbor ride his snowplow like it was the mechanical bull at
Flannery’s Bar.
On the frigid side of the storm door,
Roger Frey swiveled his head from side-to-side, as if searching for who I
hollered at.
At times, I’ve stood before a mirror,
arguing with myself, and seen what I look like when I blush. My neck gets as
red as my hair, then the color dashes uphill past my face to my forehead. So, I
knew what Roger saw when he looked at me.
“Sorry,” I mumbled to what I could see
of his face. “Cranky. I was up half the night.”
His voice muted by the scarf covering
his mouth, he said, “No need to apologize.” He knew the hours I kept when the
muse plopped down next to me.
The glass door misted when he leaned
close to peer past my shoulder.
I looked behind me. Elvira had followed
me to the door. She stared at us, head slightly tilted. The pale pink of her
eyes darkened as if she’d decided something.
Roger nodded at her. “At least you’re
not alone anymore.”
“Me or the cat?” I said.
“Both, I suppose.” When Roger pulled
down the scarf, his grin showed the small gap between his front teeth.
“I prefer being alone,” I said. “If you want company, feel free to take the
cat.”
My friend and neighbor had been alone
since his wife took off for a warmer place three years ago.
Elvira sniffed once. Then she turned
abruptly, wiggled her large derriere at me, and curled up on the floor at my
feet.
Roger laughed out loud.
As if loosened by the laughter that
exploded from deep inside him, a sheet of snow skidded off the roof. He must
have heard the rumble, because he took a quick step backwards. He wasn’t fast
enough, though. While half the snow thudded to the ground, the rest flattened
his wool cap and spilled down his face. His hazel eyes rounded in surprise.
Now I
laughed. With snow all over his body, it looked as though Frosty the Snowman
was on my stoop. I opened the storm door and
brushed the snow from his cheek. “Come in here,” I said. “Let me dry you
off.”
He stamped his feet on the mat to rid
himself of most of the snow.
As I stepped aside to make room for him
to pass, I stumbled over the cat.
Roger moved faster than he had to avoid
the snow drift from my roof. His arm shot out. “Careful!” he said, and grabbed
me around the waist just as I began to flop like a rag doll to floor.
The man is certainly strong. In a single
motion, he lifted me from my feet then set me down. His arms still surrounded
me.
“You okay?”
I nodded, but couldn’t speak, not even
to say yes. I’m sure it was because I was a little bit in shock.
At last he released me, and bent to
stroke the cat. “That wasn’t nice, Elvira,” he said. “You could’ve hurt Emlyn.”
I also leaned down to stroke her. “This
beast probably intended to do it.”
When I glanced at Roger, his face was
precariously close to mine. The look in his eyes told me he might not mind
being nearer still.
“Uh, yeah,” I mumbled, and pulled back
to put a safe distance between us. “She probably did it on purpose…” My words
drifted into a crimson haze.
His cheeks also a bit red—I told myself
this was probably from the near-zero temperature outside—he straightened up,
and unwound his scarf. His chin and upper lip were dark. The morning stubble
enhanced rather than detracted from his chiseled cheekbones and slightly cleft
chin. This was a handsome man by anybody’s reckoning. More than that, he was
kind. He looked after his neighbors, and made sure we were safe. I’d often
wondered why Judy, his ex-wife, would leave such a man.
“I, uh, stopped by to, um…” he said.
I looked down. I had nothing on but my
pajamas and robe, and the robe had fallen loose when I nearly fell. Trying not
to be obvious about it, I tied my robe closed.
Roger took a deep breath. “Yes, uh, the
UPS guy brought this.”
He pulled off his gloves, unzipped his
jacket, and took a cardboard box from a large inside pocket. Holding it out, he
said, “It came yesterday afternoon. All the snow, the UPS guy couldn’t get to
your door, so he left it with me.”
The box was about nine inches wide, a
foot long, and maybe two inches thick. I turned it over in my hands, examined
the label. The return address said the package came from Naples, Florida.
“It’s from my mother,” I said.
“What is it?” Roger asked.
I shrugged. “I’d have to open the box to
find out.”
“So, open it.”
Glancing sideways at him, I smiled.
“Later.”
“Come on,” he said, and reached for the
package. “I hauled it all the way over here. Plowed out your driveway while I
was at it. You gotta show me what’s in there.”
“All the way over, huh?” I laughed. “You
live next door.”
“Yeah, well.” He took off his jacket,
and draped it over the back of a kitchen chair. His black hooded sweatshirt
barely made it to his hips. “I had to wade through three feet of snow to get
here. That’s gotta be worth something.”
I laid the package on the kitchen
counter. “How about some coffee?”
I yanked the wet knit cap from his head,
and tossed it into the sink. Snow clinging to the fibers sprinkled onto his
dark brown hair, and melted into the gray that had begun to invade his temples.
While I brushed the wet beads from his curls, I said, “A gentleman takes off
his hat when he comes inside.”
He picked the box up and handed it to
me. “Don’t try to change the subject. I know you, Emlyn Goode. You’re dying to
look inside.”
I was. But it was just so much fun to
tease him. A girl’s got to do that now and then, just to stay in practice. I
turned my back, and refilled my mug then poured coffee into a second mug.
He pushed the box in front of me.
“You’re a big snoop, you know that?” I
said.
He let out the laugh that never failed
to disarm me. “Of course I am. I’m a cop. Snooping is what I do.”
“Yup, and I’m your good buddy. Like in
novels, it’s the sidekick’s job to give the cop a hard time. That’s in my job
description.” I pointed at the package. “And see, it’s written right here.”
Another deep, resonant laugh burst from
him. “You’re definitely a piece of
work,” he said.
Elvira seemed to grow impatient with my
stalling. She leaped onto the counter and pawed at the package. How the devil
did she manage to move her large body so lithely?
“Okay, okay,” I said. “I can’t fight
both of you.”
I took the box to my dinette table, and
sat, glancing around.
“What now?” Roger asked.
“I need something to slice the tape
with.”
He tilted sideways in his chair and pulled
a Swiss army knife from his pants pocket. As he flicked open the smaller blade,
he said, “I was a boy scout, I’m always prepared.”
Settled on Roger’s lap, the cat smacked
his hand with her paw. Then she glared at me. C’mon, knock off the flirting and get to it, she seemed to
say—well, that’s what her growl sounded like.
I slit the tape and raised the cardboard
flaps. Inside was what appeared to be a very old book. Without removing it from
the box, I carefully lifted the leather cover. The words on the first page were
faded. Still I was able to make some of them out.
“What is it?” Roger asked.
“Seems to be someone’s diary.” I suspect
I sounded puzzled. Why would my mother send me something like this?
Between the next
two pages was an envelope addressed to me. Inside was a note. I’ve been holding onto this, Mom wrote, hoping the line that’s led from Sarah Goode would end with me.
Apparently it hasn’t, so I’m sending you this. Please, Emlyn, try to make
better use of this than some of our ancestors have.
Elvira sniffed the book and purred.
Quickly, I refolded the letter.
Roger leaned over, peered into my eyes.
“What is it?” he said.
“It’s…um, it’s…” I stammered as I
searched for a lie he might believe. I didn’t want to tell him my mother had
sent me Sarah Goode’s Book of Shadows.
A guy like Roger—his life was built on the belief every mystery could be
logically explained, and magic is nothing but sleight-of-hand. He’d remarked
about that the night we saw David Copperfield perform at the Seneca Niagara
Casino. The fastest way to end our friendship was to tell him I’m the latest in
a 350-year line of witches. If I said that, he would stare at me as though I’d
winked at him from a third eye in the center of my forehead. Then he’d leave
and not come back. Oh, he’d be polite about it—Roger’s always polite. But our
friendship would be over. I mean, if it ever got out Detective Roger Frey of the Niagara Falls Police Department had a witch
for a friend, he’d die of embarrassment. Or maybe he’d have to resign
his position or even move to Rochester or something. If he did, who would plow
my driveway then knock on my door to share my morning coffee and help me with
the Sunday crossword puzzle?
What? I already said I have a vivid
imagination.
As if Sarah Goode’s book was catnip,
Elvira dropped her head on it, mewed, and rubbed her paw across her face. Roger
shoved her aside, and leaned over to see, I supposed, what caused my concern.
Before he could remove the book from the
box, I closed the flaps.
“It’s, uh…um, just an old family diary,”
I said. It wasn’t much of a lie. A Book of Shadows is a diary of a sort. Witches record their herbal mixtures in it,
and the words they chant to work their magic. My friend, Rebecca Nurse, had
explained that when she showed me hers.
What people are saying about The Magic of Murder:
"This
book pulled me right in. I think it must have been the fact that Susan Lynn
Solomon puts her characters first. The story revolves around the murder of a
Niagara Falls Police officer… The adventure that ensues is absolutely
entertaining and well-written. It is funny, exciting, and fast-paced. Every
character has depth and is…believable. The Magic of Murder is one fun read and
is definitely worthy of all 5 stars."
—Frederick
Crook, author, Of Knight & Devil
"Suspense,
humor, compelling characters, a dash of the supernatural dating back to Salem,
a powerful sense of place, and Emlyn Goode, a passionate and determined woman
new to witchcraft and murder. Susan Lynn Solomon captures both the city of
Niagara Falls and its quirkiest resident, an unusual sleuth. The magic of
Murder is a winner and, we hope, only the first appearance of Emlyn Goode."
—Gary Earl Ross, author of
Blackbird Rising and the Edgar Award-winning Matter of Intent
Sounds great! Readers, don't forget to check out this book!
Purchase Links:
Universal Amazon: http://bookgoodies.com/a/B015OQO5LO
CreateSpace: https://www.createspace.com/5756422
Author Bio
Formerly
a Manhattan entertainment attorney, and then a contributing editor to the
quarterly art magazine SunStorm Fine Art, Susan Lynn Solomon now lives in
Niagara Falls, New York, where she is in charge of legal and financial affairs
for a management consulting firm.
After
moving to Niagara Falls, she became a member of Just Buffalo Literary Center’s
Writers Critique Group, and since 2009 a number of her short stories have
appeared in literary journals, including, Abigail
Bender (awarded an Honorable Mention in a Writer’s Journal short romance
competition), Witches Gumbo, Ginger Man, The Memory Tree, Elvira, Second Hand, Sabbath (nominated for 2013
Best of the Net by the editor of Prick
of the Spindle), and Kaddish.
Her
latest short stories are Going Home,
which appeared in the October 19th issue of Flash
Fiction Press, Captive Soul,
which is included in Solstice Publishing’s Halloween anthology, Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep, Volume 1,
and Yesterday’s Wings, about a woman
searching for the courage of her past, appears in the October 2015 edition of, Imitation Fruit.
Susan
Lynn Solomon’s new Solstice Publishing novel, The Magic of Murder, is available
at Amazon.com.
Author Links:
Website/Blog: http://www.susanlynnsolomon.com/
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/susanlynnsolomon
Amazon Author Page: amzn.to/1mVKpl5
Susan's Books:
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