Writing

That First Line…and More?

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by Helen Currie Foster

November 24, 2025

Writers live in trepidation that they’re failing a much-publicized writing test: a great first line.

Crafting the Hook: Why Your Novel’s First Line is Crucial

Maybe that’s not a fair burden. If I already like a writer’s work—a favorite mystery-writer, for instance–I don’t demand a blockbuster first line. But I do need reassurance that I’m going to like that writer’s new book as well as the last. So on the opening page, I hope to see a reminder of the detective’s personality, of an interesting setting, of the vagaries of the detective’s colleagues.

If, however, it’s my first encounter with an author—I need to be drawn in swiftly. Looking at first lines (and what immediately follows) is a good exercise. Each reader knows when the opening has worked, and they’re hooked on a story—or not. Maybe the lesson is this: when the reader’s eyes fall on the first page, the writer must promise the story!

“Tell me a story!” That’s what we’re looking for when we open a book. The first sentence, the first page, needn’t summarize the book, but we want very quickly to know we’re going to get a story.

Here’s a first line that kept me reading: “When Augustus came out on the porch the blue pigs were eating a rattlesnake—not a very big one.”

Blue pigs? I’d never heard of blue pigs, much less pigs dining on rattlesnake. Of course I kept reading, just to hear more about Augustus: “Pigs on the porch just made things hotter, and things were already hot enough. He stepped down into the dusty yard and walked around to the springhouse to get his jug.” By then the reader might also be feeling thirsty and might wonder if Augustus would share that jug… but the author hadn’t finished:

“[T]he sun had the town trapped deep in dust, far out in the chaparral flats, a heaven for snakes and horned toads, roadrunners and stinging lizards, but a hell for pigs and Tennesseans.”

What a setting, and what a contrast to Augustus’s home—he’s stuck in godforsaken dusty chaparral flats, heaven for snakes and horned toads, and far from the moist green hills of Tennessee.

McMurtry’s first sentence is great. But then he gives us just a couple more sentences—and we find ourselves already longing to hear more about Augustus as the saga begins—Lonesome Dove, of course, and thank you, Larry McMurtry.

The on-line lists of “famous first lines” include perennial favorites. Of course Moby Dick is famous—“Call me Ishmael.” We’re notified that our protagonist will be wandering far….

Also there’s Pride and Prejudice: “It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.”  Jane Austen doesn’t keep us waiting. By the end of the first page we know that “a single man of large fortune” has arrived in the neighborhood—and we tingle in anticipation of the plot suggested in the opening sentence.

What about Shogun? The first line of James Clavell’s novel hauls us in: “The gale tore at him and he felt its bite deep within and he knew that if they did not make landfall in three days they would all be dead.” Then, “Too many deaths on this voyage, he thought, I’m Pilot-Major of a dead fleet. One ship left out of five—eight and twenty men from a crew of one hundred and seven and now only ten can walk and the rest near death and our Captain-General one of them. No food, almost no water and what there is, brackish and foul.”

What will happen? Will the pilot survive? We’re hooked by the first sentence, and the next few sentences convince us that we’ve got a tale to read in Shogun. Even if we’ve never yet read any Clavell, we’re confident—as we are in Lonesome Dove, and in Pride and Prejudice––that the author’s got a story for us.

Hilary Mantel is a genius at first lines. The Mirror & the Light begins In London, in May 1536, with this sentence:  “Once the queen’s head is severed, he walks away.” It takes another page before we begin to grasp that “he” is Cromwell, attending the execution of Anne Boleyn. And already we know that this story will be frightening.

As a lover of mystery novels, I’m critical about beginnings. I liked Batya Gur’s mysteries, set in Jerusalem, with Chief Superintendent Michael Ohayon. Here’s the first line of Bethlehem Road Murder:
“There comes a moment in a person’s life when he fully realizes that if he does not throw himself into action, if he does not stop being afraid to gamble, and if he does not follow the urgings of his heart that have been silent for many a year—he will never do it.”

Okay, but who’s thinking that? The next sentence reveals the thought belongs to Chief Superintendent Ohayon himself, and he’s thinking that thought while he’s engaged in leaning over a woman’s corpse and trying to get a better look at the silk fibers from the rip in the scarf around her neck. In other words, our detective’s already on the job—but what are the “urgings of his heart” that we just heard about? I’m hooked—we have a corpse, a murder (surely a mystery to solve)—and also a mystery about what’s bugging our protagonist.

Here are the first and second line of one of Tony Hillerman’s later mysteries, The Shape Shifter (2006):

“Lieutenant Joe Leaphorn, retired, stopped his pickup about a hundred yards short of where he had intended to park, turned off the ignition, stared at Sergeant Jim Chee’s trailer home, and reconsidered his tactics. The problem was making sure he knew what he could tell them, and what he shouldn’t, and how to handle it without offending either Bernie or Jim.”

If you didn’t already know Lieutenant Leaphorn, you’d at least grasp from the first sentence that he’s tactful, careful, thoughtful. But what’s the issue he’s wrestling with? We’ll know by the end of the paragraph, and we’ll be deep into a new story. Just as we hoped.

And here’s the first line of Hillerman’s earlier The Ghostway (1986): “Hosteen Joseph Joe remembered it like this.”  The next paragraph explains how this witness “noticed the green car just as he came out of the Shiprock Economy Wash-O-Mat…The car looked brand new and it was rolling slowly across the gravel, the driver leaning out the window just a little.” And what Hosteen Joseph Joe remembered next was that the driver—though he looked like a Navajo—had yelled at Joseph Joe, who was eighty-one, and “that was not a Navajo thing to do.” We already feel a story—why would someone yell at Hosteen Joseph Joe?—but by the time Hosteen Joseph Joe winds up his narrative (just paragraphs later) he has also described the ensuing pistol shot leaving a dead man on the ground. Who was murdered? By whom? Why? We’ve definitely got a story.

If you read Reginald Hill (his protagonists are Detective Superintendent Andy Dalziel and Peter Pascoe of the Yorkshire CID), you know that he begins every mystery differently. His Bones and Silence (1990) is no candidate for a mere “first sentence.” Instead, it opens with a letter to Superintendent Dalziel from an anonymous correspondent who intends to commit suicide, but wants to be in correspondence with Dalziel before this occurs. The letters continue to arrive for Dalziel for months—anonymous, and we don’t know whether the writer is man or woman—as he and Pascoe toil through a series of apparently unrelated murder investigations. We readers are kept in suspense until the very last page.

Finally—and do you remember being assigned this book?—consider this first sentence: “The cold passed reluctantly from the earth, and the retiring fogs revealed an army stretched out on the hills, resting.” Thus opens The Red Badge of Courage, by Stephen Crane. We see the landscape—and we see the army, “resting.” “Resting”? The army must need  rest and we wonder why. “Resting” somehow builds suspense for what may follow –for what may happen when the army finishes resting. We know there’s a story––but we don’t know what, and we won’t meet that young private for a couple of pages more.

Our craving for stories is what makes us human. Think of the power of those four little words: “Once upon a time…!” Four words that assure us of a story. We gather around to hear it, whether we’re three, thirty, ninety.

Robert Louis Stevenson, author of such tales as Treasure Island and Kidnapped, was given a name by the Samoans: TUSITALA—the Teller of Tales. What an honor!

And that’s who we aspire to be. Raconteurs! Storytellers! Writers! Authors! Tellers of Tales!

And now–here in the Hill Country west of Austin, we finally (FINALLY) got some rain. Wishing you a HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

My latest tale, Ghost Justice, came out August 29, 2025. It’s Book 10 in the series involving Alice, a lawyer working in the small town of Coffee Creek in the iconic Texas Hill Country. Legal drama, and matters of the heart! The next tale is simmering! Find Ghost Justice at BookPeople in Austin or on Amazon. https://www.amazon.com/Ghost-Justice-Helen-Currie-Foster/dp/1732722943

Follow me at http://www.helencurriefoster.com.

THE EMPRESS’S JEWELS AND THE STUNNING LOUVRE HEIST. by Francine Paino, a.k.a. F. Della Notte

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In a world where the news is filled with violent crimes against other humans, it’s almost refreshing to hear of a daring, Hollywood-esque jewel heist, where no one was hurt, although it lacked the romance of Alfred Hitchcock’s 1955 thriller, To Catch a Thief.

This most recent shocking, daring, and scandalously simple heist of French crown jewels on display at the Louvre in Paris, France, took place on Sunday, October 19, 2025, at 9:30 a.m., when brazen perpetrators dressed as construction workers parked a basket lift on the side of the museum. Using it to access the balcony, they then cut through a glass window and entered the Apollo Gallery. Passersby would not have been suspicious, as these types of basket lifts are commonplace and used to move furniture in and out of buildings. The audacious criminals needed a grand total of eight minutes, only four of which were spent inside the museum, breaking the display cases and grabbing the jewels worth 88 million euros ($102 million), before descending in the basket lift and fleeing on waiting motorbikes. The Empress Eugenie’s crown was dropped and damaged during the escape. It was retrieved by the French museum authorities, who have promised to repair it. (That thief probably wasn’t a woman)

The French minister of Culture, Rachinda Dati, described these criminals as being “very efficient.” They obviously knew exactly what they wanted and where to find the jewels. Taken were a tiara, necklace, and earrings from the sapphire set belonging to 19th-century French queens Marie-Amelie and Hortense. Also taken were an emerald necklace and a pair of emerald earrings from Empress Marie Louise, a reliquary brooch, and a tiara and brooch belonging to Empress Eugenie, Napoleon III’s wife.

As of this writing, a Reuters report dated November 13 states that the French police immediately notified their Antwerp counterparts in Belgium using the “’ Pink Diamond’ network, a secure channel overseen by EU law in Europol that unites investigators specializing in high-value thefts.” Antwerp is the Belgian port city at the heart of the world’s diamond trade. Over the last 30+ years, it has become a growing underworld hub for hundreds of gold and jewelry shops, where “fences” can sell stolen gold or jewels, putting the Antwerp World Diamond Centre’s reputation at risk due to questionable money-laundering practices involving drug proceeds.

Of the seven arrests made within hours of the Louvre burglary, four have been charged and three released. Still, the jewels have not been recovered. These gems are still too “hot” to be cut and polished by the few capable Antwerp cutters and polishers with the necessary skills. One would think that, given the history of successful museum robberies, the French authorities would be more intent on preventing the theft of such national treasures of enormous value. But one cannot criticize the French when the biggest art heist in American history in 1990 is still unsolved 35 years later.

THE ISABELLE STEWART GARDNER MUSEUM HEIST

In Master Thieves – the Boston Gangsters Who Pulled Off the World’s Greatest Heist (Winnipeg Free Press), journalist Stephen Kurkjian chronicles his 25-year quest to research and report on the world’s greatest art heist. He gives detailed descriptions of the characters involved in the events and the lead-up to the March 18, 1990, night when two men, dressed as police officers, rang the night bell of the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston and told the guard they were responding to a reported disturbance. Now, 35 years later, there have been no arrests, and the canvases are still missing, despite all the police theories and all of Kurkjian’s work. The ongoing search has come to nothing.

There have been other notable heists, such as the theft of the Mona Lisa, again from the Louvre in 1910. This was another remarkably straightforward strategy. An Italian handyman hid in the museum overnight and concealed the canvas under his work smock. The next morning, he simply walked out while the museum was still closed. In this case, the canvas was recovered two years later when the thief tried to sell it in Florence. His motive was that he believed it belonged to Italy.

While none of the real-life robberies were catalysts for the fourth book in the Housekeeper Mystery Series, Murder in the Cat’s Eye, the events have shown how simple art thefts can be, and the avenues available to ‘fences,’ especially in Europe. Father Melvyn’s and Mrs. B’s newest case involves the theft of an ancient cross and murder in Rome, when they take a small group of parishioners to Italy to learn about the lives of the earliest Roman Christians. They must navigate theft, murder, criminals, and the international arm of the law that reaches back to Austin, Texas.

The cases of the Louvre and the Gardner museums inspired ideas for character development, and background materials for the antiquities robbery. Although the theft in Rome does not victimize a museum, it addresses the fundamental problems of smaller museums and private collectors who are willing to engage in black-market purchase of items unavailable or unaffordable through legitimate channels. And of course, dealing with the black market means dealing with organized crime, drug money laundering, and often, murder.

Coming soon, the release of book four in the Housekeeper Mystery Series: MURDER IN THE CAT’S EYE, An Antiquities Theft and Death in Rome.

Meanwhile, happy reading.

For more information on the 2025 Louvre heist, there are many online reports, including https://www.reuters.com/world/europe/chasing-louvre-loot-inside-antwerps-jewellery-underworld-2025-11-12/

For comprehensive details of the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum heist, I highly recommend Master Thieves, by Stephen Kirkjian.

Imposter at the Library

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By Kathy Waller

In late October, I spoke at the J.B. Nickells Memorial Library in Luling, Texas. An author talk, although I feel like an imposter calling it that. I write slowly, have published only a few short stories plus a novella co-written with a real author, haven’t published a novel of my own, . . .  I’m not really an author . . . Well, you get the idea.

The condition is not new, and I’m not the only sufferer. New Austin Mystery Writer Noreen Cedeno recently posted on Ink-Stained Wretches Bouchercon and the Imposter Syndrome. On today’s Writer Unboxed blog, Rachel Toalson posted The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Imposter Syndrome Crisis. Nobody looking at these two writers’ lists of publications would describe either as an imposter—they are writers. I, on the other hand, am an imposter.

When invited to speak in Luling, however, I didn’t let impostership stop me. I said, Yes. I had my reasons.

In the first place, I love talking about books. I’d rather talk about other people’s books, but since retiring as a librarian, I don’t get to give booktalks anymore. I miss that.

In the second place, I was born in the old Luling Hospital and six years later left my tonsils there. I grew up, and lived for years after, in Fentress, a very small town ten miles from Luling. I was a member of the Rainbow Girls chapter in Luling. I spent a lot of time at the Luling DQ. My maternal great-grandparents lived there; my grandmother was born there. My mother’s family lived there for two years when she was in junior high (and she and her sister were the first girls to wear shorts to play tennis in Longer Park). And two cousins on my father’s side who grew up three blocks up the street from me in Fentress married Luling natives. In short, Luling is my old stomping ground.

I wanted so much to speak in Luling that I decided to pretend I was a real author.

Note: I’m not a total fraud. I mean, I not only gave booktalks at my libraries, I once gave a booktalk at a meeting of the Seguin, Texas, Kiwanis Club. I was a professional librarian. Real.

As a professional, I arrived prepared: outline, notes, quotations, copies of the anthologies containing my short stories and of the novella co-written with Manning Wolfe. The librarian escorted me to the room where I was to speak. I laid out my books and materials.

Then things fell apart.

About a half-hour before the presentation was to begin, kinfolk arrived: Peggy, a second cousin whose family lived up the street in Fentress; Brownie, her late sister’s husband; and Brownie’s daughter and son-in-law and granddaughter. I hadn’t seen them in forever. So the family reunion began.

By the time I went on stage, so to speak, I was was having so much fun that I scrapped my notes and just talked. And talked. And talked.

Minna Katherine Stagner Veazey and Col. John L. Veazey

First, I shared some local history that has faded from the town’s memory: the story of my great-grandfather, Col. John L. Veazey, who took his wife and two young daughters to Cuba for the Spanish-American War, and who was murdered in broad daylight on Luling’s Main Street in 1904. No one in the audience had heard the story. I told other stories. I talked about writing. I had a drawing and gave away some books. I talked.

Afterward, there was more family reunion, and Fentress reunion, since one member of the audience was the daughter, and the granddaughter, of Fentress residents.

I had the time of my life.

Then speaker’s remorse set in. I had done a terrible job, just babbled, talked too fast, bored the dickens out of everyone, left my education at home, made a fool of myself—it’s not like I don’t know how to conduct myself before an audience, but I totally forgot myself, lost all sense of decorum, and was just awful. Imposter author, imposter speaker. Simply dreadful.

But. One man—actually, the only man who stayed for the program—Tom Brown Webb, Jr., familiarly known as Brownie. He married my cousin Janell Waller sixty-nine years ago, when they were both nineteen. That was just before my fifth birthday. When I was a child, I knew Janell and her sisters were princesses. She died nearly four years ago,

During the reunion, I told Brownie something I’d wanted to say for a good while—I thanked him for being so nice to me when I was a disgusting and ever-present four-year-old extremely excited about wedding plans; he always treated me as if I were a real person and not just a little kid.

He left right after I finished speaking. I just knew he’d been so bored that he couldn’t wait to get outta there. But we had all agreed to meet soon for lunch at a cafe in Fentress. I would apologize then.

Last week, nine days after we met at the library, Peggy called to say Brownie had died. Unexpectedly. She also said he’d enjoyed his evening at the library. His daughter said the same thing, that he’d talked a lot about it, said he learned things he hadn’t known, that he could “just see” everything I described, and “wouldn’t your mother have enjoyed that.” After the funeral, his son-in-law told me the same.

Imposter Syndrome. If I’d given in to it and declined the invitation to speak in Luling, I wouldn’t have seen Brownie one last time. I wouldn’t have told him how much I appreciated his kindness to a little girl. I wouldn’t have known he enjoyed listening to the stories I  told. I wouldn’t have the memory of a happy time with a treasured relative.

I still feel like an imposter. But I’m finished with speaker’s remorse. Brownie enjoyed my talk. That’s all the validation I need.

***

Kathy Waller blogs at Telling the Truth, Mainly. She has almost completed a draft of a mystery novel. When she gets to “The End,” she will no longer feel like an imposter, probably.

She is grateful to fellow Austin Mystery Writer  Helen Currie Foster for telling the librarian at the Nickells Library that she is a writer, and for not mentioning that she is an imposter,

 

 

 

 

 

The Value of (Human-Created) Art

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I recently spent a Saturday in Gruene—a historic district of New Braunfels known largely for Gruene Hall, a dance hall famous for hosting iconic musical talents including Lyle Lovett, Lucinda Williams and Willie Nelson. Gruene regularly hosts artist events and attracts people who appreciate art in its many forms. Recently, Gruene hosted the 33rd Annual Texas Clay Festival, an event showcasing the work of 80 talented potters and clay artists. 

As I took my time admiring each booth’s offerings, I was moved by the sheer diversity of design and how many ways a single piece of clay could be transformed into something beautiful, something useful, something unique. It felt as though each artist revealed their specific personality through their offerings.  For someone who the phrase, “throwing a bowl” means something entirely different, I enjoyed learning about how they practiced their craft.  One artist’s style—employing technique and tools similar to Ukranian Pysanky egg etching—caught my eye. I stopped, we chatted, and I fell in love with her work. I’m writing this post while drinking coffee from one of her stunning mugs. Her art continues to brighten my day, and this experience reminds me that art in all its forms, offers an experience. 

I’m sometimes drawn to art because of the story behind the piece and the story of the person creating it. For me, those things are all intertwined, connected. Art touches us in a way that’s not easily quantified but deeply resonate. It’s distinctly personal, particularly human.

AI tools have now entered the chat. It can feel discouraging for artists to create in this new era of AI and LLM tools, all claiming to write/design/create better than we can. But can they, really? 

I don’t think so.

 I can’t imagine those creations will connect with people in the same way. Human created art moves us, stirs something in us, stays with us. AI will likely improve certain aspects of science, automation, engineering, and medicine—which is not something I discount– but art? We need less RAM and more soul. 

AI has exacted a particular kind of pressure on those who create for a living. I am one of many authors whose novels and short stories were found in LibGen, a database of pirated works that was used to train Meta’s LLM. I was neither asked nor compensated, and while Anthropic is in the middle of a settlement suit related to their own behaviors, I have little faith that these companies will do better in the future. They’ve shown us who they are. I’m taking Maya Angelou’s advice on this one. 

You know those authors whose distinct voice shines in their work (Sara Gran and Tana French)? The musician whose sound and lyrics move you to hit ‘replay’ countless times (Stevie Nicks, Prince, Tom Petty)? The painting that moves you? I still remember the first time I saw Sargent’s El Jaleo at the Isabella Stuart Gardner Museum in Boston. I was deeply drawn to its movement, beauty and scale. Which artists move you and why? And if you’re an artist, what compels you to continue? Whatever it is, keep it close and tend to it often because what you create might be a gift to others. 

I’m still writing because it’s what I’ve always done. I don’t know how to stop, nor do I want to. I see the world in stories, and there are still so many characters and places I need to explore. I simply can’t imagine doing anything else. For me, writing a novel is like following a winding trail, filled with side quests and new discoveries. My process is sometimes messy, often imperfect and completely human. 

And one more thing—I’ve used the em dash for longer than I can remember and probably more than is recommended. Em dashes aren’t a sign of using LLMs—we were here first. =)

Pottery Artists:

https://www.shannonceramics.com

https://kopottery.com/

https://www.3rdcoastclay.com/who-we-are

Laura Oles is the award-winning author of the Jamie Rush mystery series. Her work has appeared in crime fiction anthologies, consumer magazines and business publications. Her debut mystery, Daughters of Bad Men, was an Agatha nominee, a Claymore Award finalist, and a Writers’ League of Texas Award finalist. Depths of Deceit, her second novel, was named Best Mystery by Indies Today.She loves road trips, bookstores and any outdoor activity that doesn’t involve running.She lives in the Texas Hill Country with her family.

Fall Comes to Paris

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By Helen Currie Foster

Travel thoughts.

It’s fall in Paris. The rows of chestnuts flanking the Seine are turning golden-brown; gingko trees sport their distinctive yellow leaves, preparing to fling down, on one afternoon they keep secret, all their leaves at once.

Fall fashion? Long hair for women, slim tan trench coats at mid-calf, midi-length swishy skirts. Anyone can wear jeans and sneakers (male, female, old, young) with a blazer-cut jacket. In the markets, apples from the Garonne (Pixie Pommes!), quantities of mushrooms, cashmere scarves. Kids scurry to school at eight while their older siblings stride down Rue de l’Universite toward Science Po. 

I’m forever grateful to Madame, our wondrous French teacher at McCallum High in Austin. On the first trip to Paris over fifty years ago, fresh off the early train, my husband and I stopped at a café where I opened my mouth in fear and trembling to order in French—deux cafes et deux croissants.

To my shock the proprietor didn’t blink. And the result was magic—our first taste of croissant.

Long past high school I still say “Merci, Madame!” A Parisienne, she had (I believe) a PhD. She maintained perfect class discipline—even with smarty seniors. When anyone asks, how did you learn French? I say, “Madame! She made us sing songs!” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=96JRl7bER3g&list=RD96JRl7bER3g&start_radio=1

As to “à la Claire Fontaine” I suspect she omitted the first two verses—at least I don’t remember singing about bathing beneath a tree! But this song and the rest we still remember, decades later.

Sur le Pont d’Avignon…Frère Jacques…Alouette, gentille alouette, je te plumerai (le nez, le cou, et la tete, et le dos, etc.). At Christmas, Il est né, le divin enfant. Twisting your tongue around the pretty French words leaves you with life skills.

(She didn’t teach us La Marseillaise. But I still get chills when, in Casablanca, Victor Laszlo leads the crowd at Rick’s in singing it.)

And another beloved teacher taught both Latin and English. She could order grown seniors to race to the blackboard to diagram sentences, and insisted we use proper punctuation.

What was it about those favorite teachers? They made us learn. They brooked no foolishness. They could tell when we faked preparation. They thrust us into difficult novels, demanding paintings, complex unfamiliar music. Hitherto hidden histories. Concepts we hadn’t invented or come upon by ourselves.

Maybe we did learn. Maybe—that learning is worthwhile.

Yesterday we visited La Fondation Louis Vuitton to visit what architect Frank Gehry dreamed of as an iceberg with sails.

Curves, lines, water, wood… magical in their power.

The building invites you to wander and wonder. What imagination, what creativity, what a vision! I listened to the rippling water traveling down the slope—the sound took over. Couldn’t hear traffic, or talking. Just the water–in the middle of a vast city. Being there takes you back to Roman stonework (rectangles, arches, roads in straight lines), and then to the power of curved sails, moved by wind and water. People working there seemed quietly confident that visitors should and would be (but not literally) blown away.

READING: I’m very much enjoying Susan Wittig Albert’s Thyme, Place & Story website where she is now serializing the first China Bayles book–A Bitter Taste of Garlic. Many of us are fans of this series, and would be delighted to visit China’s herb shop in a town not far from Austin…!

I just finished Mick Herron’s Down Cemetery Road. I found it much scarier than the Slow Horses novels…but still wanted to know the ending. It was published over 20 years ago and apparently will be streaming in October.

On the flight over I was reading Graham Robb’s France, including some tales of Paris that were scarier than Down Cemetery Road. Like being the butt of your buddies’ jokes and winding up as a prisoner in Fenestrelle, a political prison during the Napoleonic era. https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Forteresse_de_Fenestrelle

Meanwhile, at home, Ghost Justice is now out! Book 10 in my Alice MacDonald Greer Mystery Series set in the Hill Country. Available at BookPeople on Lamar Blvd. in Austin https://bookpeople.com/ and on Amazon. https://amzn.to/4pk8WQO

Hope you’ll enjoy it!

Helen Currie Foster lives and writes the Alice MacDonald Greer Mystery Series north of Dripping Springs, loosely supervised by three burros. She’s drawn to the compelling landscape and quirky characters of the Texas Hill Country. She’s also deeply curious about our human history and prehistory and how, uninvited, the past keeps crashing the party. Follow her at http://www.helencurriefoster.com.

HIDDEN GEMS OF HISTORY AND THE STORIES THEY INSPIRE

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By F. Della Notte

Ideas for stories are often triggered by research into family members, alive or deceased, strangers and their stories and the histories of different cities, countries, and states. The information may never appear in a book, but it gives the writer a more profound sense of historical events that color the author’s senses. And of course, the older the city, town, or state, the deeper the hidden gems that may be found.

My short story, “The Runaway Pin Boy,” was inspired by my immigrant uncle, circa 1926, who ran away from home and worked as a pin boy in the New York City Bowery until his father (my grandfather) found him. What was life like for pin boys, often called pin monkeys? The research took me from the Bowery in New York City, where it began, to the development of the sport and bowling alleys across the nation.

Then, of course, there was the period of prohibition, another explosive, compelling time in history, giving birth to the private, secret clubs called speakeasies. Lest we think speakeasies were exclusively in big cities like New York, Austin, Texas, had its own. Some are still in operation, such as the well-known Prohibition ATX on Anderson Mill Road, which is jazzy and more modern-looking than its forerunner. The Midnight Cowboy, an old brothel masquerading as a massage parlor, is now one of the oldest speakeasies in Austin.

The unlikely combination of a ballet dancer, an old Victorian house in Austin, and the myth of Confederate gold inspired much of Two Wolves Dancing. None of the American Civil War’s hidden treasures, however, have been found or confirmed to exist, including the gold Jefferson Davis supposedly hid when fleeing the Union in 1863. There is still an ongoing dispute about what happened to gold bars that vanished near Dents Run, Pennsylvania, on their way to the U.S. Mint. There is one find that may keep treasure hunting for Confederate gold alive for generations to come: The Great Kentucky Hoard. In 2023, an anonymous person using a metal detector discovered 700 Civil War-era gold coins buried in a cornfield in Kentucky. The hoard was confirmed and the coins authenticated by numismatic authorities.

As a native New Yorker who used the New York City subway system extensively, it was the stories of the hidden subway tunnels that triggered my imagination once again. While a myth of an immense hidden treasure from the turn of the 20th century does not exist in the subways of New York, there is one gem: The Subway Garnet.

In 1885, while excavating for a sewer line beneath West 35th Street, a worker dug up a massive, red-brown garnet weighing almost 10 pounds. Initially, the rock was used as a doorstop by the Department of Public Works until its identity and its value were eventually recognized by a geologist. Now, it is housed at the American Museum of Natural History.

The secrets, legends, and urban myths of the subway system are old and many.  There’s the story of the pneumatic subway, constructed in the 1860s by inventor Alfred Ely Beach, beneath Broadway. Eventually, the project was abandoned and the entrance sealed. Decades later, when building the modern subway, excavators broke through and found the abandoned railcar.

The abandoned City Hall station, opened in 1904, was considered the crown jewel of the first subway line. It was closed in 1945 due to its sharp curve and low ridership, but myths of its secrets persist. Today, riders on the Number 6 train can sometimes catch a glimpse of the ornate station as the train turns around. Then there’s Track 61.

Now abandoned, Track 61 lies beneath Grand Central Terminal, running to the Waldorf Astoria Hotel. President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s custom five-car train platformed there, allowing him to enter and exit the hotel discreetly, keeping his paralysis out of public view.

And what would Urban legends and myths be without the Mole People: Dwellers who created shantytowns in abandoned tunnels. And ghost stories are a must, and so are ghost trains. Rumors persist of a phantom train that can sometimes be seen in the Astor Place station. One theory suggests the ghost train is the private car, called the Mineola, of August Belmont Jr., the financier of the first subway line, who used it to transport guests to his racetrack. Ghostly pets also have their place in the underground. Due to its connection with FDR and his dog, Fala, legends claim that the terrier’s ghost still haunts Track 61, where the dog used to accompany its master. 

And so with all of these histories, stories, and myths in a nation that hasn’t been in existence for quite 250 years, how much more can we imagine from ancient empires?

In book four of the Housekeeper Mystery Series, Mrs. B., and her boss, Father Melvyn decide to take a group to Rome Italy, to study the lives of the early Roman Christians, and find themselves in the middle of a theft and murder surrounding the discovery of an ancient cross that might have belonged to Miltiades, the first bishop of Rome, in the 4th century, when Christianity was illegal and punishable by death. The legend: a special cross, was made by Emperor Constantine, in 312 A.D. after his victory at the Milvian Bridge. He had a vision of the symbol of the cross, accompanied by the words, “In this sign you will conquer,” and he did. This was the turning point for Christianity, and the beginning of the myth that a gold cross studded with gems was gifted to Miltiades, to be passed down to each succeeding prelate. But the cross disappeared and didn’t resurface in Rome until Mrs. B. and Father Melvyn arrived. The question is, why, and who would kill for this cross?  

To find the answers, watch for Murder in the Cat’s Eye coming by the end of 2025.

Meanwhile, happy historical explorations and happy reading.

Naming Characters: Steve Dauchy MacCaskill

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Kathy Waller

I’m working on a mystery novel—I’ve been working on it for years, but am now seeing the light at the end of the tunnel—and am faced with dilemmas too numerous to whine about in only one post, so I’ll move along.

I will instead write about the one pleasure of the writing life: creating and naming characters.

My novel is set in a little town very like my own hometown. I don’t base my plot on real events, and I don’t use real people as characters—with one exception: Steve Dauchy.

Not Steve, but close

Note: One of my readers, Dr. Cullen Dauchy, knows more about Steve than I do, especially about his early life, and I hope he’ll feel free to correct any errors.

Steve Dauchy was a career blood donor at Katy Veterinary Clinic in Katy, Texas. On retirement he moved to Fentress, where he lived with his veterinarian-owner’s parents, Joe and Norma Dauchy. Joe and Norma lived next door to me; in local terms, next door meant that my house was on one corner, then there was a half-acre “patch” of pecan and peach trees and grass and weeds, then a street, and then on the next corner, the Dauchy yard and their house. The point being that when Steve visited me, he didn’t just stroll across a driveway.

Joe was my dad’s first cousin, so I guess that makes Steve and me second cousins. I have a lot of cousins on that side of the family, although most are human.

Steve is a family name, with a story behind it. As I understand it, back in the ’20s or ’30s, my Great-uncle Cull (Joseph Cullen Dauchy, Sr.), enjoyed listening to a radio program about a Greek character who frequently spoke of “my cat Steve and her little cattens.” Uncle Cull was so amused by the phrase that he named a cat—probably one of the barn cats—Steve. And for the next forty or so years, he always had a cat named Steve.

Uncle Cull and Aunt Myrtle Dauchy’s house, home of the first Steves

So when the clinic cat became part of the Uncle Cull’s son and daughter-in-law’s family, he became the latest in a long line of Steves.

How to describe Steve? He was a fine figure of a cat: a big tabby, deep orange, with an expression of perpetual boredom. His reaction to nearly everything translated as, “Meh.” I’ve heard that’s common among clinic cats.

Once when Steve was standing on my front porch, the neighbor’s Great Dane got loose and charged over. I was frantic, shouting at the dog, shouting at Steve. But when the dog hit the porch, Steve just looked up at him. Dog turned around and trotted home.

Some would say Steve was brave, and I’m sure he was. But I believe his grace under pressure had its roots elsewhere.

First, he had experience. He knew dogs. In his former employment, he’d observed the breed: big, little, yappy, whining, growling, howling, cringing, confined to carriers, restrained by leashes, sporting harnesses and rhinestone collars, hair wild and matted, sculpted ‘dos and toenails glistening pink from the OPI Neon Collection. He’d seen them all. He was not impressed.

Facing down a Great Dane, however, took more than experience. There was something in Steve’s character, an inborn trait that marked him for greatness: his overarching sense of entitlement. He was never in the wrong place at the wrong time. My porch was his porch. The world was his sardine.

Except for the kitchen counter. Steve thought kitchen counters were for sleeping, but Joe and Norma’s maid didn’t. Consequently, he stayed outside a lot. He took ostracism in stride and used his freedom to range far and wide. Far and wide meant my yard.

Steve’s house

At that time I had three indoor cats—Christabel, Chloe, and Alice B. Toeclaws—and a raft of outdoor cats. The outdoor cats started as strays, but I made the mistake of naming them, which meant I had to feed them, which meant they were mine. Chief among them was Bunny, a black cat who had arrived as a teenager with his gray-tabby mother, Edith.

One day Bunny, Edith, and I were out picking up pecans when Steve wandered over to pay his respects, or, more likely, to allow us to pay our respects to him. Bunny perked up, put on his dangerous expression, and walked out to meet the interloper. It was like watching the opening face-off in Gunsmoke.

But instead of scrapping, they stopped and sat down, face to face, only inches apart. Each raised his right paw above his head and held it there a moment. Next, simultaneously, they bopped each other on the top of the head about ten times. Then they toppled over onto their sides, got up, and walked away.

That happened every time they met. Maybe it was just a cat thing, a neighborly greeting, something like a Masonic handshake. But I’ve wondered if it might have had religious significance. Bunny was a Presbyterian, and Steve was a Methodist, and both had strong Baptist roots, and although none of those denominations is big on ritual, who knows what a feline sect might entail?

Steve had a Macavity-like talent for making himself invisible. Occasionally when I opened my front door, he slipped past and hid in a chair at the dining room table, veiled by the tablecloth. When he was ready to leave, he would hunt me down—Surprise!—and lead me to the door. Once, during an extended stay, he used the litter box. Christabel, Chloe, and Alice B. Toeclaws were not amused.

Distance Steve traveled between his house and mine. His house is way over there behind the trees.

Invisibility could work against him, though. Backing out of the driveway one morning, I saw in the rearview mirror a flash streaking across the yard. I got out and looked around but found nothing and so decided I’d imagined it. When I got home from work, I made a thorough search and located Steve under my house, just out of reach. I called, coaxed, cajoled. He stared. It was clear: he’d been behind the car when I backed out, I’d hit him, and he was either too hurt to move or too disgusted to give me the time of day.

It took a long time and a can of sardines to get him out. I delivered him to the veterinarian in Lockhart; she advised leaving him for observation. A couple of days later, I picked him up. Everything was in working order, she said, cracked pelvis, nothing to do but let him get over it.

“Ordinarily,” said the vet, “I would have examined him and sent him home with you the first day. I could tell he was okay. But you told me his owner’s son is a vet, and I was afraid I’d get it wrong.”

Although he was an indoor-outdoor cat, Steve managed plenty of indoor time at his own house, too, especially in winter, and when the maid wasn’t there. One cold day, the family smelled something burning. They found Steve snoozing atop the propane space heater in the kitchen. His tail hung down the side, in front of the vent. The burning smell was the hair on his tail singeing. They moved him to a safer location. I presume he woke up during relocation.

At night, he had his own bedroom, a little garden shed in the back yard. He slept on the seat of the lawnmower, snuggled down on a cushion. Except when he didn’t.

One extremely cold night, I was piled up in bed under an extra blanket and three cats. About two a.m., I woke up to turn over—sleeping under three cats requires you to wake up to turn over—and in the process, reached down and touched one of the cats. It was not my cat.

I cannot describe the wave of fear that swept over me. It sounds ridiculous now, but finding myself in the dark with an unidentified beast, and unable to jump and run without first extricating myself from bedding and forty pounds of cat—I lay there paralyzed.

Unnecessarily, of course. The extra cat was Steve. He’s sneaked in and, considering the weather forecast, decided that sleeping with a human and three other cats in a bed would be superior to hunkering down on a lawnmower.

Steve’s full name was, of course, Steve Dauchy. In my book, he will be Steve MacCaskill. MacCaskill was the name of a family who lived next door to my Aunt Bettie and Uncle Maurice. Their children were friends of my father and his brothers and their many cousins. They were a happy family.

“My family had to plan everything,” my dad’s cousin Lucyle Dauchy Meadows (Steve’s aunt) told me, “but the MacCaskills were spontaneous. If they decided they wanted to go to a movie, they just got into the car and went to a movie.” When Lucyle and the other girls helped their friend Mary Burns MacCaskill tidy her room before the Home Demonstration Agent came to examine it, one of the first things they did was to remove the alligator from the bathtub.

I heard so many delightful stories about the MacCaskill family that I decided they were too good to be true. Then, at Aunt Bettie’s 100th birthday party, my mother introduced me to Mary Burns MacCaskill, who had traveled from Ohio for the party.

So as an homage to that family, I’ve named my main character Molly MacCaskill. And when choosing a pet for Molly, I couldn’t choose a finer beast than Steve.

*

Note: Cullen Dauchy no longer owns Katy Veterinary Clinic, but he did when Steve worked there, and the clinic was Steve’s first home, so I’m leaving the link.

And I’m so glad the Home Demonstration agent didn’t inspect bedrooms when I was a girl. I didn’t have an alligator, but she might have thought I had something worse.

***

This post first appeared in Ink-Stained Wretches in 2021.

***

Kathy Waller blogs at Telling the Truth, Mainly. She has published short stories, and a novella co-written with Manning Wolfe. She is perpetually working on a novel.

Quiet Wins at Bouchercon

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VP Chandler

by V.P. Chandler

When people talk about Bouchercon, especially in New Orleans, they usually share stories of late nights, legendary meals, bustling crowds, powdery beignets, and lots of alcohol.

That wasn’t my week.

But the funny thing is—I still accomplished exactly what I went to do.

My panel, Wide Open Spaces, with Craig Johnson, Bruce Borgos, Jeff Ayers, George Wilhite, and moderated by the lovely Sylissa Franklin was a highlight. The conversation flowed, and the audience was engaged. I made them laugh a few times and even got a gasp. So, mission accomplished. I walked away feeling like I’d contributed something worthwhile.

I also got to meet Clay Stafford in person and thank him for publishing my short story, Under The Blackjack Tree, in Killer Nashville Magazine.  (The story that was chosen by John Grisham and Otto Penzler for The Best Mystery Stories of the Year 2025, which is still surreal to me. (Coming out next week!) Stafford’s keynote, The Story That Saved Me, was “cry for crime writers and readers to remember why stories of darkness and redemption still matter—and why telling the truth on the page can save us, too.” Honestly, it was one of the most inspiring talks I’ve heard in a long while. Glad I went.

Another highlight was finally meeting Otto Penzler in person. I thanked him for the opportunity, and he graciously signed my copy of the anthology. A small moment, but one I’ll carry with me.

At the end of most days, I met up with Laura Oles in the hotel/lounge bar. (It was so noisy all of the time!) We compared notes at the end of the day—who we’d seen, what panels had sparked ideas. She was on a terrific panel herself, Dialogue Matters: Slang, Concise, or Verbose? The group dug into how dialogue can reveal character and control pacing, which is something that I’m always working on.

I also loved being in the audience for Sweet Tea with a Splash of Crime: The Southern Influence, with Ace Atkins, S.A. Cosby, and other writers who captured both the grit and taste of Southern literature, and where it’s headed. Another standout was Killing Your Darlings, with Penzler and Donald Maass, which was a sharp reminder that ego doesn’t belong in the editing room if the goal is to make the story better.

And one of my favorite unexpected moments? Donald Maass allowed me to join him for lunch one afternoon. We had a thoughtful conversation about Writer Unboxed, an organization we’re both part of, about writing in general, and drawing inspiration from real life,. It was simple but memorable, the kind of connection that lingers long after the conference ends.

So no, this wasn’t a Bouchercon of big parties or long nights on Bourbon Street. But it was a Bouchercon where I hit my goals, connected with people who matter to me, and left with a few new insights and ideas. Sometimes the quieter wins are the ones that last.

See You…in September!

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By Helen Currie Foster

It’s September! New school year! New shoes, after a hot barefoot summer! New outfit, for the first day of school! And then––new classes! New subjects, new teachers, new tools! New friends! New lockers, new classrooms, new hallways…. New season—new teammates, new coach, new plays.

Remember all that?  Your first day back at school? Back to college, back to university? Do you remember the excitement, the nervousness, the anticipation?

September 1 was  Labor Day. And now there will be apples, apple pie and apple crisp. There will be chrysanthemums, spilling out of baskets. Even in central Texas, leaves will change color—as Maxwell Anderson’s lyrics have it, “When the autumn weather turns the leaves to flame.” Here in the Hill Country, sumac and Spanish oak turn red, sweet gum turns yellow. No, not the glory of the maples, but a change in the landscape. Because finally, after the dog days of summer, that’s what September brings: something new.

It’s time to pull up the tired summer flowers and thank them for their service. Time to dig some holes and plant new trees, and order some bulbs. I’ll be planting the Mexican plum seedlings a friend gave me, and ordering narcissus bulbs for indoor blooming.

Then the Hill Country brings its own fall excitement. Dove season began  September 1 and a down-the-road neighbor, disturbed by shotgun pellets clattering onto her roof, had to call the sheriff, and have officers explain to a clueless (thoughtless? lawless?) neighbor that it’s contrary to law to allow your ammunition to cross your own fence line. Also unneighborly. But hmm, that could find its way into a future book plot….

Our Hill Country holds surprises. One is the way water hides in the Hill Country—down in secret seeps and creeks, around curves and hollows. And what odd creatures live out here! For example, this fall we’ve seen again the rare and secretive rock squirrel. (We’ve seen a solitary rock squirrel only once every few years.)  We’ve heard the great horned owls that call at night, up and down the creek, and the herons who call, flying down the valley. The buzzards drone, annoyingly, from the tops of telephone poles. We treasure glimpses of the shy, gorgeous painted buntings who appear briefly at the bird feeder, then flit away. Porcupines visit. Roadrunners dart across the road.

And the dog days are over. (This year they were July 3-11, and these hot sultry days have borne their name from ancient times ostensibly because it’s when Sirius, the Dog Star that accompanies Orion, rises with the sun.) https://www.almanac.com/content/what-are-dog-days-summer

But during the dog days I took refuge at night, binge-reading two mystery series that were new to me, by British author Peter Grainger: the DC Smith Investigation series and the Kings Lake Investigation. http://bit.ly/4gmPsad

These wry British procedurals are set on the coast of Norfolk, providing a cool and rainy ocean-side backdrop for the appealing characters. At least I could read about rain and cool breezes. But the books offered not only a respite from ridiculous heat, but a welcome respite from writing. I’ve been in the last weeks of finishing Ghost Justice—Book 10 in my Alice MacDonald Mystery Series, set here in the Texas Hill Country. For me that process includes waking in the wee hours with my mind on plot additions and subtractions, dialogue, characters. For such moments—when the characters wake me up at night voicing their further demands (yes, they seem to come to life and require conversation and attention)––I find mysteries provide absorbing distraction.

And now – Watch for Ghost Justice this week!  https://amzn.to/4pk8WQO

Helen Currie Foster lives and writes the Alice MacDonald Greer Mystery series north of Dripping Springs, Texas, loosely supervised by three burros. She’s drawn to the compelling landscape and quirky characters of the Texas Hill Country. She’s also deeply curious about our human history and how, uninvited, the past keeps crashing th eparty. Follow her at http://www.helencurriefoster.com.

THE FELINE WITCHING HOUR

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by

Francine Paino, a.k.a. F. Della Notte

According to BondVet.com, cats are among the most intelligent creatures on the planet. Scientists believe that cats are uniquely smart when compared to dogs and other animals, which makes it understandable that, like their human counterparts, cats have witching hours. (PetMed.)  During those episodes, which generally take place at dusk or dawn, felines may suddenly have bursts of extra energy and display athletic and agile abilities.

In addition to watching my cat, Miss Millie, run, jump and stare at objects or minuscule insects that I either can’t see or don’t exist, I learned that she, to my amazement, could leap four feet up from one piece of furniture to a higher surface. (Now her middle-aged spread has reduced her airtime). And yes, I did measure the distance!

Millie has given us a few spooky behavior episodes of the midnight crazies too. She jumps on my bed at 3 a.m., stands on my chest, pokes her cold, wet nose against mine, and stares into my closed eyes, willing me to open them. On one occasion, she then ran repeatedly to the back door and shoved her head under the window covering to stare out at the back deck. Perhaps at real live prey beyond her reach. How frustrating for her, and no, I didn’t open the door and let her out!  Fortunately, those episodes are few and far between since she then settles down and takes intermittent naps during the day—a luxury I don’t have. To be clear, my Millie cares not a whit for what the experts say. Her most frequent witching hour occurs almost daily between three and four in the afternoon – my time to sit and read. It’s also her way of showing who’s the boss. Hey, human, forget the book. Look at me. She runs, jumps, pounces on invisible prey (invisible to me), and she will often roll onto her back at my feet and stare up at me with shiny eyes that challenge. Try and stop me. 

Suggested ways to manage these activities include creating climbing areas – but she already climbs on everything. Create hiding spots and exploration zones. Miss Millie knows every inch of this house. I think she knows spots I have not yet discovered, and she can squeeze herself into narrow spaces between furniture and the walls that amaze me. I know she has bones, but sometimes I wonder if they become cartilaginous. 

Especially fascinating is how she rules, or should I say communicates. If I’m at my computer in the late afternoon, we have a problem.  According to her time clock, I should be in the kitchen at that hour, taking out food groups to prepare for dinner. So, to move me, she jumps on my lap, proceeds to purr, and opens and closes her paws on my legs, kneading them as one kneads bread dough. And if I don’t acquiesce fast enough, she nips my forearms. I have even warned that I’d send her to the cat-sausage factory if she doesn’t stop, but Millie is immune to my empty threats.

“Maybe she just wants some attention and affection,” said my husband. Sounds reasonable, right? Wrong. Miss Millie will have none of that. She turns her head, stares into my eyes, gives a warning growl, nips my forearm, then jumps down and runs to the kitchen as if to say, Get out in that kitchen and rattle those pots and pans. (Weren’t they words to a song in the 1960s?)

And so, my cat is a fine example of the extraordinary intelligence, determination, and intuition and communication of a cat – and one who demonstrates clearly who’s the boss.

Miss Millie is the personality prototype for LaLa in the Housekeeper Mystery Series. At this time, LaLa is waiting for Father Melvyn’s and Mrs. B.’s return from Italy, but her active participation is minimal in Murder in the Cat’s Eye, A Roman Antiquities Mystery.

In the eternal city, there is a particular cat sanctuary worthy of mention. Torre Argentina (no relation to the South American country) is located in the ancient ruins where Julius Caesar’s assassination took place. The cat sanctuary was established in 1929 and provides shelter for stray and abandoned cats. It’s run by volunteers who provide care, spay and neuter services, and find homes for approximately 150 cats living within the ruins. Visitors may tour if in Rome, and through their remote adoption program, meet the cats and view their habitat. Makes one wonder what their witching hour looks like among the ghosts of ancient Rome.

TORRE ARGENTINODownload

In Murder in the Cat’s Eye, A Roman Antiquities Mystery, we meet two precious and precocious felines, Romo and Remo, named for the mythical founders of Rome, Romulus and Remus. Watch for them and Murder in the Cat’s Eye in the fall.

          Meanwhile, Happy Reading!!