DO WE NEED NEW PLOTS?

by Janice Law

Years ago I had the task of teaching somewhat reluctant students the refinements of English style. These were nice people who had difficulty telling Shakespeare from Austen or Keats from Ginsberg, and to assist them, I made up a sheet of quotations. This required typing and a mimeo machine, and anyone who knows what they are has been around for a while. Anyway, each quote was the introduction of the detective from a famous story, starting with Genesis, where the Lord is the P.I. of the moment and begins seeking the whereabouts of the missing Abel.

Readers with a Biblical background will recall that Cain, the first punk in recorded history, basically responds, “How should I know?” or more elegantly in the King James version, “Am I my brother’s keeper?”

Other famous sleuths made an appearance in the exercise, notably King Oedipus, whose investigations and self exploration proved fruitful for Freud as well as detection. Being a mere mortal, Oedipus had to rely on the best forensics of his time, namely a consultation with the oracle at Delphi and a conference with Tiresias, whose unique physical and sexual history gave him unusual insight into human nature.

As king, or as the play dubs him, tyrant, Oedipus had certain political responsibilities, and if much has changed in our neck of the woods, a mix of confidence and bombast were required then as now. Oedipus assures the Thebans that he feels their pain and promises to end the plague by finding the guilty party.

Bemused by oracles and magic snakes, the modern reader may find it difficult to believe that the killing of an arrogant old man would have slipped Oedipus’ memory. However, a thought for Sudan, Congo, or the Tex-Mex border may put us in the right frame of mind for what is recognizably already a P.I. story with political overtones.

Hamlet, the dithering detective, had to be included, for he’s the prototype for all who try to tease out truth from the seats of power. I ended with one of my all time favorites, Philip Marlowe, named for the Elizabethan playwright, who was himself a spy and so, tangentially, in the detective business.

I was thinking about this little exercise the other day, when I was considering the antiquity of so many of the forms of mystery fiction. A crime is committed, preferably murder, though the Victorians and Edwardians rather liked thefts of fine jewelry. A detective, public or private, goes to work questioning suspects and examining evidence. There is danger and adventure, concluding with the apprehension of the guilty and the restoration of social order.

My question to myself was, is this still enough? Particularly in short fiction, the traditional pattern and traditional crimes remain the norm. Indeed, it is difficult to sell, even if one can construct, an alternative to what might be called ‘personal’ crimes of violence. Yet, as the recent financial crisis suggests, enormous damage can be done to individuals and to whole societies by ‘impersonal’ crimes, that is, white collar crimes and corporate recklessness or outright malfeasance.

In an era when corporations often have more income than nation states and when fiscal manipulation is a source of truly colossal wealth, there are new forms of crime that do not lend themselves easily to our traditional plot structures. Add in the experience of failed, kleptomaniac, and outright criminal states, and we have to ask if our favorite genre is quite as relevant as it used to be.

Of course, as the song goes, “it’s still the same old story, a fight for love and glory,” but the mystery reached its present popularity as an adjunct to the rise of democratic states with their concomitant belief in the reasoning powers of the ordinary man and woman. There’s a reason why the detective is so often rumpled and untidy and dressed strictly down market.

Now with the increasing power of remote economic forces and the enormous impact of technology, I suspect that some new plot lines are needed to keep short mystery stories, in particular, relevant. After all, other favorites have come and gone. The country house mystery had a last hurrah in Gosford Park, but for the most part the aristocratic detective and the well appointed smoking room are nostalgia items, while the gothic is now an object of academic interest, a true sign that it has lost its spark.

And although the noir spirit continues, even some of the best examples are consciously retro. Gumshoes in trench coats and fedoras are not reports from the streets anymore but entertainment as stylized as the locked room mystery.

Where’s the next big plot variation to come from? I wish I knew. Some novel length thrillers rely heavily on conspiracy plots, and cyberpunk has explored the thrills and perils of the computer. Can some of this material be treated in the short form? And can we devise new plots for the new crimes of the 21st century? I think we’d better.

FLORIDA NEWS

by Leigh Lundin

Despite my penchant for Florida news weirdness, I’ve barely mentioned Caylee Anthony beyond criticizing the oh-so-wrong ‘psychics’ championed by Nancy Grace. Casey Anthony hasn’t yet come to trial, but the case has so dominated central Florida news for three years that other serious crimes wither in its shadow.

It’s fair to warn this past month’s news is unusually grim, but it’s germane to bear witness to the dark side of our genre. As usual, persons accused are considered innocent until otherwise proven guilty.

Teenage Wasteland

A particularly sad case is Seath Jackson, a 15-year-old lured to a home and killed by three boys and two girls, including his girlfriend whom Seath had accused of using methamphetamines and cheating. The five beat him, shot him, dismembered him, and burned his remains in a fire pit.

Initially, Seath’s parents reported him missing. Police learned of the homicide after a 16-year-old casually told his mother, "He’s not missing, he’s dead."

The horrified mother drove her son to the Marion County Sheriff’s office to report the crime. She was considerably more astute than stepfather James Havens who, once he’d learned of the crime, concealed it and helped the kids further dispose of the body.

Too Little for Pests

A case at least as heart-wrenching is that of twins, 10-year-old Nubia Doctor and her brother Victor, who’d been put up for adoption in 2004. Authorities allowed them to remain in foster homes for five years, contrary to state guidelines of one year. The children’s aunt sued in an attempt to win custody of the children, but thanks to a ‘glowing’ DCF report and a psychological profile that described a ‘significant bond’ with their foster care family, custody and ultimately adoption were awarded to Carmen and Jorge Barahona of Miami.

Last month, police arrested Carmen Barahona for abuse of her son and the first degree murder of her daughter. Four days later, police arrested her husband for attempted murder of the boy.

Volunteer guardian ad litem Paul Neumann had expressed strong doubts about the Barahona’s suitability, but was overridden by DCF and the court. The Barahona’s granddaughter also reported abuse, but before action was taken, one of the adopted twins was dead.

Reports indicate the parents beat their adopted children, denied them medical and dental care, forced them into garbage cans, and kept them locked in a bathroom. We don’t yet know how the little girl died, but the mother bundled the little body in a plastic garbage bag. The father apparently doused the boy with acidic pesticide chemicals, which prompted his arrest for attempted murder.

Authorities removed two other children from the house, including the Barahona’s biological daughter Jennifer.

Taking a Toll

Moving away from heavy crime… Police cannot arbitrarily stop citizens and demand identification, not even in Arizona, but Florida toll booth operators can and do. The crime? Paying with a $20, $50, or $100 bill. The DoT claims they experienced a crime wave of 885 attempts to pass funny money.

Once brought to public attention, the Florida Turnpike Authority belatedly went into cover-up mode, failing to realize their internal eMails can be tracked. Here’s the clever part: Not counting salaries, wasted fuel, and violating the law, they spent $32,000 in forms alone to combat an estimated $16,000 problem.

But wait– Are these the same people who secretly paid bribes of $10,000 a month to keep a local politician‘s big mouth silent? Hey, it’s the public’s money.

Help Take a Byte out of Crime

Speaking of eMails, Palm Bay Police Corporal Darin Morgan is working with Brevard County Judge David Silverman to expedite warrants in DUI cases. The officer types up the warrant, then connects to the judge via Skype to get approval before the alcohol evidence dissipates.

Every binary digital bit helps.

Rock, Paper, Glug…

So as not to feel entirely depressed on this fine Sunday morning, this story from quite some time back was brought to my attention and is hereby dedicated to our Atlantic boating friend Sheena.

The Indian River is the Atlantic channel that separates the mainland from the islands. It seems boaters on the Indian River managed to capsize and no one wanted to swim to shore for help.

Grasping at straws, they decided on a game– rock, paper, scissors (sinking, soggy, and rusty?)– and the loser would swim to shore. I’m sure no alcohol was involved. No word how many rounds they played.

KID STUFF

by John M. Floyd

I’ve always been impressed by the way some authors can write successfully in different genres: Nora Roberts, James Rollins, Margaret Atwood, Larry McMurtry, Joyce Carol Oates, and many others.

But what impresses me the most is when I find out that an author I already enjoy reading, like James Patterson or Roald Dahl, has also written children’s books. To me that’s an even bigger genre jump than the one from romance to mystery, or thriller to sci-fi, or western to literary. To write quality fiction for young readers involves more than just toning down the sex and violence and language.

I’ve read a number of those “kids’ books by adult-fiction writers,” including The Eyes of the Dragon and The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon by Stephen King, both of which I thought were excellent. And today I’d like to mention three that were written by established crime/suspense authors:

A Coyote’s in the House, Elmore Leonard

According to Amazon, this book is geared to children in grades five to eight, so the fact that I enjoyed it might tell you something about my maturity level. My copy is hardcover, 149 pages. It tells a cute story — a Southern California coyote and a house dog meet and decide to switch places — and of course teaches a life lesson in the process.

Hoot, Carl Hiaasen

This one’s also for the ten-to-fifteen age group, and was better, I thought, than its 2006 movie adaptation. Around 300 pages in hardcover, it features a relocated and bullied twelve-year-old who befriends a homeless boy and defends a family of owls endangered by Florida developers. Hiaasen’s humor is present as always — it could be argued that his genre is more humor than crime anyway — and it’s an interesting story.

Edenville Owls, Robert B. Parker

The most “serious” of the three, EO combines high-school coming-of-age problems with a real mystery. I would think its target audience is about the same as for Coyote and Hoot, and the Owls in this one are a junior varsity basketball team. I found that it has the same kind of fast-moving plot and clever dialogue in its 194 pages that you’d expect to find in Parker’s adult mystery fiction.

Would you — or any grownup except me — enjoy these books? Who knows? Your kids or grandkids almost certainly would. But I’ll tell you this: I didn’t think I’d like them at all, and it didn’t take long to see I was mistaken. All three stories are delightful.

They made me feel young again.

DRIED FRUIT

by Steven Steinbock

It’s a frabjous Friday, and today your beamish correspondent is in the company of James Lincoln Warren, traveling by train from New York’s Penn Station to Washington’s Union Station. Last night members of the Mystery Writers of America gathered in the Grand Hyatt Ballroom above Grand Central Station for the annual Edgar Banquet and Award ceremony. (Alas, because your humble correspondent has not learned to use his vorpal sword to slice through time, I am writing this before the aforementioned banquet had occurred, so I’m unable to accurately report any details of that event).

On Wednesday, the day before the Edgars, a small group gathered at the Algonquin Hotel, the site of the famous Round Table. Criminal Brief lodge warden and keeper-of-the-keys James Lincoln Warren called the meeting to order. In attendance were Criminal Brief columnists Melodie Johnson Howe and Yours Truly along with special guest Stephen Ross, a regular visitor and occasional (well, once is an occasion) columnist at Criminal Brief who was here all the way from Whangaparaoa, New Zealand. (Stephen’s short story, “Monsieur Alice is Absent,” was nominated for an Edgar Award). Also present were Fact Crime writer Linda Lou Long and novelist Charles Todd.

Today through Sunday, fans and practitioners of the “traditional” mystery (however one defines it) are gathering at the Hyatt Regency in Bethesda, MD, for Malice Domestic. Keep an eye on the “comments” section below for up-to-date news. Perhaps James Warren will scribble us a post-mortem report in his Monday column.

DRIED FRUIT

The other night Melodie Johnson Howe complained that I spend too much time writing about food. This complain, of course, came between bites of her steak. (Lest I risk libel, I must say that each forkful of her steak was elegantly delivered to her mouth, and the chewing and speaking were never concurrent). At the risk of incurring Melodie’s wrath, I have some further thoughts on food and the words we use to label them.

(Incidentally, during a lunch meeting on Wednesday with members of the International Association of Crime Writers – NA board, I learned not only that Edgar winner William Bayer is married to cookbook writer/designer Paula Wolfert, but also that Jonathan Santlofer’s wife, Joy Santlofer, is a food writer, teacher, and historian).

For thousands – if not tens of thousands – of years, humans have been drying fruit as a means of preserving their provisions. The advent of the Frigidaire (r) has led the preserving of food from a necessity to an art form. Certain dried fruits have in fact taken on lives of their own to the point that they no longer share a name or resemblance to the fruits from which they were made.

A slice of dried apple is still called “apple.” Dried cherries, apricots, and strawberries continue to carry the name of the source fruit even after they’ve been dried. Why then does a dried plum become a “prune”? And why does a grape cease to be called “grape” when it is transformed into a raisin (or a sultana or currant)? And as tasty as they may be, how did the driedcranberry acquire the retrofitted name “Craisins” (r)? It’s pure craziness.

Some fruits, most notably dates and figs, can be eaten fresh or dried. But invariably when people think of figs and dates, it’s the dried form.

While “prune,” “sultana,” and “currant” each get their name from a specific variety of plum or grape, the word “raisin” is a fairly generic term, from the Latin racemes, meaning “cluster of grapes or berries.” Sultana is the feminine form of “Sultan” and in addition to the light-colored dried grapes, it can refer to a wife, daughter, or concubine of a Sultan. (Interestingly, a certain kind of large Spanish olive is called a “Queen Olive”). Currant gets its name from the Peloponnesian city of Corinth where the small dark grapes grow. There must be a story in there somewhere. But until I come up with it, I’ll be busy eating.

THE MYSTERY OF LIFE

by Deborah Elliott-Upton

Yesterday, I spent most of the day/evening at the hospital. No one was ill. In fact, the doctor delivered good news, along with our granddaughter, Francesca Deborah Suzanne. She’s quite precious and beautiful and just about everything we could have ordered if there were such a catalog. Whenever they shooed us from my daughter’s room and into the waiting area, I find myself thinking of all the drama playing out every day before my eyes. There’s always a mystery hidden beneath what people are saying and what their body language is revealing.

Since we’re on a maternity floor, everyone seems happy. They are expecting good news. But, as the hours tick by, people get tired and nerves move from rare to overdone. You can see which mothers-in-law are most excited about the proposition of becoming grandmothers. Grandfathers come in different temps, too. Some are elated (these are usually the son’s dads) and the fathers of the baby’s mother usually wear more sedate expressions as they are always a bit worried about their daughters. The seasoned grandparents are more on an equal status. They’ve been here before and it’s like carving another notch on a gunfighter’s belt. Just a fact of life.

We watched a four-year-old dance around the room floating bee-like, à la Muhammad Ali. The dark-headed boy wore a shirt that said I’M THE BIG BROTHER. When asked if he was getting a brother or a sister, he answered deadpan, “A brother.”

“Oh, so you’ll have someone to play catch with?” my husband asked.

The expression on this kid was priceless. He was obviously in the company of dolts. “Not catch. Football.”

“Are you the quarterback or the linebacker?”

“Quarterback.”

“And what’s your name?” I asked.

Again, he looked like he was conversing with an idiot. Without hesitation he said, “Tony Romo.”

The kid’s eyes were grinning, but his lips never did. I felt like he was playing with us and not about to let us see what he was really thinking. That was his business and we were just old people who had no clue.

His grandfather said this was their fifth grandchild. He leaned back in his chair and just smiled. I understood what his body language was screaming. He gets to have the fun without any of the problems of being a parent.

That’s probably the best part of grandparenthood. You aren’t responsible for anything except their safety. That’s a nice seat to be sitting in. There’s not even a seatbelt restriction. You are free to move around and be who you are, because although you’re sort of an example, this time you can have a lot more fun. Now you can be the pal and confidant. For some reason, grandkids believe you when you tell them why they shouldn’t do certain things when they’d never believe the same information from their parents.

I remember once when we were kids and my sister was grounded. I marched her into our parent’s bedroom and conducted a “trial” on Sue’s behalf. I must have been a good lawyer because we walked out fifteen minutes later with my “client” cleared of all charges and released from any groundedness.

She was surprised. I was heady with ego. My parents were probably happy to be done with us for a while.

Sue gave me a bite off her Hershey bar as payment. I think that made me a professional, but I was practicing without a license.

I wonder how Tony Romo (or at least this miniature version) will turn out in life. I hope he never loses that excitement where he just can’t sit still. The time where he can be whomever he dreams. And I also hope he keeps that twinkle in his eye and a shade of mystery to his real life. No one needs to know everything about us. Like Shrek surmised: We’re like an onion. There are layers.

Life is a mystery and since we’re all mystery-lovers here, I think that’s grand. But maybe that’s just how I’m thinking right now as a grandmother a.k.a. Nanny. I can’t wait for this next mystery to get started.

CRUEL TO BE CRUEL

by Rob Lopresti

The other day I was looking at Improbable Research, a website dedicated to some of the more unusual accomplishments in the field of science. (They give out the Ig Nobel Prizes to honor “honor achievements that first make people laugh, and then make them think.”) To my surprise they were bragging of a literary accomplishment: at their next meeting they would be reciting some long-lost poems by a famous Scottish poet, William Topaz McGonagall.

The work of McGonagall (1825-1902) has survived past that of many other British poets. There are several websites dedicated to his work and one even offers to send one of his more than 200 poems to you by email on a daily basis – and more than 1500 people have subscribed!

So, what is the secret to McGonagall’s magic pull on even modern readers?

Very simple, really. He stinks.

It’s true. People can disagree about what constitutes good poetry, but just about anyone can join in unity and agree that McGonagall’s is bad.

ALAS! noble Prince Leopold, he is dead!
Who often has his lustre shed:
Especially by singing for the benefit of Esher School,
Which proves he was a wise prince, and no conceited fool.

Many would-be poets lack an ear for rhyme or a talent for scansion, or have a plodding and pedestrian taste in words. But the Bard of Dundee had, as the sportswriters say, the whole package.

A HEROIC story I will unfold,
Concerning Jenny Carrister, a heroine bold,
Who lived in Australia, at a gold mine called Lucknow,
And Jenny was beloved by the the miners, somehow.

But that’s not all. He also combined deadly earnestness with an unshakable faith in his own greatness (and many tried to shake it).

But, fellow-citizens, I will not submit to such an indignity
For I am resolved to leave the city
And bid the city a long farewell,
For I cannot get protection in it to dwell,
Therefore I’m resolved from it to flee
For a prophet has no honour in his own country,
And try to live in some other town
Where the magistrates won’t boycott me or try to keep me down.

Bad mystery

Of course, poetry is not the only place where bad writing resides. Bill Pronzini kindly provided us with two volumes of examples from our own field: Gun in Cheek and Son of Gun in Cheek. These books collect disastrous texts from many long-forgotten authors, seasoned with some painful moments by even the good and the great.

He nodded once, mostly with his eyes. —Richard Burke, Barbary Freight

He poured himself a drink and counted the money. It came to ten thousand even, mostly in fifties and twenty-fives. —Brett Halliday, The Violent World of Michael Shayne

The next day dawned bright and clear on my empty stomach. —Michael Avallone, Meanwhile Back At the Morgue.

“In plain English, Patterson,” said Pye, “nix on the gats!” —R.A.J. Walling, The Corpse With the Floating Foot

Ina syruped, “Hello, Sally.” The redhead laid an eye on me and started rubbing it over my bulk as though she was sizing up a rib-roast. —Michael Morgan, Decoy

Against a backdrop of darkness the heater sneezed: KA-CHOWP! CHOWP! CHOWP! And sent three sparking ribbons of orange flame burning into the pillow. —Robert Leslie Bellem, “Come Die For Me.”

Don’t be such a meanie

But the question I wanted to ask is: why do we (or at least I) enjoy this kind of thing so much? Is it just schadenfreude? The delight that we haven’t written anything that bad (or been caught at it)? I suppose it is the same principle that causes people to watch videos of people falling off skateboards, or listening to bad singers try out for music shows. Not humanity’s finest instinct, is the point I am trying to make.

Ah, well. We try to be good, but few of us can be consistent. And even that isn’t always a good thing. McGonagall was consistent.

FIRST DRAFTS

by Melodie Johnson Howe

I am packing to go off to the Edgar Awards dinner in New York. I have paired down my closet to one color: black. This way I decided I would never get a clothes attack and have a tizzy about what to wear. Also, I’ve discovered that the older I get the less I care. But packing seems to bring out the “what if” in me. It’s like writing.

What if I’m walking down the street with a Starbucks venti latte in my hand and someone bumps into me and slops it all over my outfit? I need back up clothes. But what if they bump into me while they’re trying to steal my purse? Extra purse. What if they bump into me while trying to kidnap me and hold me for ransom? What if Bones doesn’t pay? Been done. Bette Midler and Danny DeVito in Ruthless People.

What if the shoes I’m wearing hurt my feet? What if I break a heel? What if I break a leg? I should bring a skirt just in case. Otherwise the doctors will have to rip my trousers to make room for the cast. I’ll bring a skirt and wide legged trousers. I think they’re coming back.

What if the weather turns cold? I should bring a sweater. But really cold as in sleet, rain, snow, and avalanche. Winter coat. No, winter parka. But if I bring my parka then I’ll have to bring my snow boots. Do I even have snow boots? Do Uggs count?

Of course the opposite could happen. What if it turns hot and humid and I’m stuck with a lot of sweaters and flannel? I’ll have to bring some summer clothes too. Cool white linens. Wait. I don’t have white. Cool black linens. But whenever I wear linen I look like I’m wearing a Roman shade. A tank top! Who are you kidding? There is no way you’re going to be seen in tank top at your age. Silk. No, it clings to you like wet Kleenex when it’s hot and humid. Black cotton shirt. Perfect. I find one in the back of my closet and blow dust off of it. As a precaution I look at the size tag sewn inside the collar. Alas, we all have them in our clothes, usually poking us in the nape of our neck reminding us of the size we are and wish we weren’t. They also instruct us to wash the damn thing in cold water with like colors (is that discrimination?) and tumble dry low. But there is no such setting.

I feel an odd sadness as I read the tag. We are all attempting to look special, but we are doomed to these impossible instructions and a size we wish we weren’t. I blink trying to read the number. Size 8. I adjust my glasses. Size 8. Who wears a size 8 in this house? Not me. Maybe I’ll lose weight. They starve you on the plane. I better take it just in case.

Accessories. I need a necklace to go with one of the three black suits I might wear for the dinner. I stare at my jewelry, which looks like a tiny stash of swag in a pirate’s chest. Baubles collected in a box always make me think of a little girl’s foolish dreams to look like an adored pampered woman.

What if there’s a cat burglar staying in the hotel? I’ll take the cheap stuff. But it looks cheap. What if the cat burglar resembles Cary Grant in To Catch a Thief. I’ll take the good stuff. But only if Cary won’t wear that awful stripped sweater and handkerchief tied around his neck. It made him look like and out of work apache dancer.

I stare at my bed where I have piled the clothes I’m going to take. Piled is not quite the right word. Stacked? Heaped? Amassed? There is a mound of clothes, shoes, and boots.

My husband saunters in with a cup of tea in one hand and Investors Daily in the other. He stops dead, staring at the bed. “Oh. I was going to put my feet up and read.”

Translated, that means he was going to take a nap.

“I didn’t realize you were clearing out the closet?”

“I’m packing.”

He got that I-don’t-understand-her-and-I-never-will look on his face. “I thought you we’re only going to be gone for three days?”

“I am.”

“I think you need to revise.” He turns on his heels saunters back out of the room.

I sit on the edge of the bed and slump back onto my mass of clothes. I hate first drafts.