Nikki

Nikki is the author of the award-winning Sam Tate Mystery series, as well as a stand-alone thriller and two non-fiction books. Check out the rest of the site, and please subscribe. It's easy and free. New projects in the works include an ebook of short stories, a YA novel, and a new Sam Tate mystery.

Four New Mysteries to Savor

Oct 182020
 

I’m a mystery writer and I’m a mystery reader, too. That doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy other genres. I love world-building science fiction (NK Jemisin) and literary fiction (Anne Patchett) as well as select biographies.

My reading list, though, mainly consists of mysteries. While I like to encounter new writers, I have my favorite writers whose reputations are secure, whose skills are legendary, and whose stories never fail to entertain. I take my inspiration from these favorites. Among those at the very top of their game are the four below, all of whom have released new books in the last few months.

A PRIVATE CATHEDRAL by James Lee Burke

Burke is author of the mesmerizing Dave Robicheaux series. Set in Louisiana, the novels are odes to the raw splendor of the region and the raw brutality of life on the edges. Robicheaux is an on-again, off-again cop, a barely reformed drunk who shares with his imbibing buddy Clete Purcell, a fatalistic view of the world that directs their often-vicious response to injustice. In A PRIVATE CATHEDRAL, Burke has placed his story in the vague recent past, which handily fudges the issue of how old Robicheaux, a Vietnam war veteran, might actually be in 2020. It works. The book is bittersweet, the descriptive passages achingly beautiful, the action merciless, violent and swift-moving. The experience is heart-pounding.

THE GOOD DAUGHTER by Karin Slaughter

I’ve read a number of books by Karin Slaughter—I’m a fan of her Will Trent procedurals that feature a troubled cop working for the Georgia Bureau of Investigation. This novel feels quite different. Her trademark gritty realism is on display, along with a no-filter depiction of violence found in many of her novels. And yes, it is, in part, a who-done-it. At the same time, the story of two physically and emotionally wounded sisters at odds with each other, their father, and the world reads like Ann Patchett or Barbara Kingsolver. Which is to say, this book contains more than a few moving passages mixed in with the nuts and bolts of a crime procedural. Highly recommended—and it would make a terrific film.

ALL THE DEVILS ARE HERE by Louise Penny

Penny, the popular Canadian writer, usually sets her Armand Gamache series in Canada’s Eastern Townships region in a fictional town called Three Pines. Gamache, formerly Chief Inspector of Quebec’s Sûreté, is a learned man prone to philosophical reflection although capable of decisive action when necessary. The small, tightly-knit community is his refuge and his strength. This time, Penny sends Gamache and his indomitable wide, Reine, to Paris to visit their children, grandchildren and Gamache’s foster father, Stephen. There, he and his son-in-law, also a cop, uncover a dangerous scheme that draws in the entire family. Gamache’s wit, skill, and courage are as formidable as ever, particularly when his loved ones are threatened.

THE SEARCHER by Tara French

Tara French is an Irish-American writer who gained recognition with her Dublin Murder Squad series. In her newest book, she moves the action out into the countryside and adds a twist. Cal Hooper is a retired Chicago homicide detective who’s moved to find peace and perhaps a good pub following an acrimonious divorce and a disheartening epiphany about his work. His hardscrabble North Carolina upbringing should bind him to the scrappy locals, but theirs is an insular community and they keep their secrets. French unspools her story without haste, yet the throb of inevitability never leaves. Hooper realizes early on that this story won’t have a happy ending. As it turns out, though, it’s the necessary one. Sometimes that’s the best you can get.

 

 

Musings on a Late Summer/Early Autumn Day

Sep 202020
 

It’s a beautiful day, one of the most beautiful days we’ve had recently. Soft breeze, sunny skies, puffy clouds. We were supposed to get a week of this, but the wildfires that have devastated the west coast reached us and blanketed the area with haze for several days. Today, though, we can open our windows and breathe deeply and I am grateful for that.

Perfect.

Fall used to be my favorite time of year. I enjoyed the relief from the summer heat. The season brings with it crisp air, soft light, vibrant shades of gold and auburn, the smell of a wood-burning fireplace, or the unexpected warmth of the afternoon sun. A chance in later years to break out my favorite uniform, jeans, a turtleneck sweater, a jacket, low boots.

I’ve struggled to hold onto the joy I used to feel this time of year. Nineteen years ago, my husband was killed on 9/11. That certainly wiped out any possibility of autumnal pleasure for quite a while. And just as I was coming back to appreciating the change of seasons, my beloved younger sister succumbed quickly and unexpectedly to a virulent and advanced form of pancreatic cancer that killed her within a couple of months. We all hung out together. Then it was the two of us. Now it’s down to one.

I still talk to one or both of them every day, but of course, it’s a one-sided conversation.

I went into 2020 determined to heal but, well, COVID. So many plans for my road to recovery have been knocked off the board.

Everyone’s in this position, though, aren’t they? My neighbor across the street has an eight-month old grandchild living in Germany she saw just once, right after he was born. Another friend was unable to attend her father’s funeral.

I’m luckier than many, although I don’t like to think in those terms. But I have advantages. I have a house, I am more or less retired (unless you count writing) and I live in a neighborhood I don’t mind being stuck in. Plenty of trees, plenty of room, plenty of people of all ages and ethnicities. Plenty of dogs, too. COVID puppies are the new normal around here. My dog Molly seems to enjoy the company.

Autumn is when I brought her home fifteen years ago. My sister and I traveled to a farm in Virginia to return with this tiny white puppy with apricot ears. She threw up twice in the car and decided she needed to relieve herself as we sped along a congested I-95 during a downpour. Naturally, we pulled over. What does a two-month-old puppy the length of my forearm do in such conditions, unused to her new leash, her new human, and the enormous semi-trailers rumbling by like metal monsters? She sought refuge underneath the car. As she was unresponsive to tugs and soothing words, I lay on my stomach and slithered underneath the car to fetch her. As I emerged, soaking and triumphant, she peed on me.

They say dogs have owners and cats have staff. I suspect Molly had a bit of each, as well as a lifetime of love and attention ahead of her.

I’m back home now. I’ve gone around the side of my house to look at the fence I painted the other day. Just a small fence, maybe three feet across. My husband put it up twenty-five years ago to separate our tiny back garden from the air conditioning unit. To my mind, it was perfect, a little piece of nonconformity in our architecturally homogenous neighborhood. I have no idea if it was sanctioned by the management company; we never asked.

When I went to take a look at it recently, I saw the planks were rotted away at the bottom. The railing was crooked—warped, or had it always been like that? The whole fence was off-kilter. I tried to straighten it out, but time had welded it into its cock-eyed position.

I did what I could, though, just as I’ve been doing what I can for a year now. My husband and sister were the stronger, more handy people in our once-upon-a-time trio, more talented in the kitchen as well. Loss and semi-isolation have forced me into something of a learning curve. I sweep and shovel and hammer and cook and bike and walk and write and think. I water plants and paint fences. I make my dog’s life as easy as possible. I wave at my neighbors and Zoom with my friends. I laugh at silly jokes and read more than ever. I also yell and curse and pound the walls.

It is what it is. And in this moment, for this moment, it’s perfect.

Book Excerpt from BIRD IN HAND: A Sam Tate Mystery

Aug 162020
 
Background: Before he died, Arley Fitchett had collected a group of historical letters of dubious origin, letters he nevertheless believed would lead him to a rare treasure hidden on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. One example is the letter below, purportedly written by William Calvert, cousin to the fifth Lord Baltimore.

 

 

25 March 1718

Dear Teresa,

I feel as if the very fact of my last letter has brought a Curse upon this ship (although I do not believe in such things). We are becalmed. Having forsaken the unpredictable headwinds for a more southerly course, we now find the wind that had powered our sails these three weeks quite disappeared off the face of the Earth. ’Tis but our fourth day, not yet cause for great concern. Even after a relatively short time, though, I can see its effect upon the men.

The captain and first and second mates are huddled below deck, examining charts and deciding what recourse may be available to us I do not know what is to be done except to trust in Our Lord and the skills of our most able crew.

As I have even more time than usual, having been deprived of my opportunity to watch the men at work, I have decided to examine the gift I bear. I must do so with utmost discretion, as I am charged by my cousin with delivering it in person to its future owner without bringing undue attention to either the piece or its intended recipient.

The piece is a carving commissioned by Lord Baltimore and executed by the Royal Court Woodworker, a Mr. Grinling Gibbons. I should not have imagined that a piece of wood, however artfully molded, could change the dynamics of a political or personal relationship. But as I have learned, my cousin has developed his own approach to the art of trading favours and securing alliances.

Having cast mine own eyes upon the piece in question, I daresay it commands the power to bring to heel anyone into whose possession it falls. I took the liberty to show it to Dr. Bell. That gentleman insists it is unlike anything any English artist has hitherto been inspired to create.

Not being inclined towards the Arts, I cannot vouchsafe that observation. Nor am I acquainted with other works created by Mr. Gibbons. Yet even to my untested eye, this Bird is a singular piece. I trust my efforts to describe it will meet your more refined standards.

A small bird rests within the palm of an outstretched hand that appears to belong to a young woman. The bird is delicately rendered, life-like and yet not ornate. A few deft cuts indicate a wing here, a beak there. The simple lines suggest a degree of life I would not have believed possible in an inanimate object, as if the bird might take flight at any moment.

The figure has been wrought from an exotic wood, deep brown in colour with a touch of red and a subtly varied grain that give it further depth. Doctor Bell has identified it as sapele, a sort of mahogany found in the East German African colonies. Although I cannot fathom how he knows this, I am learning that Thaddeus Bell is in possession of a great many facts as well as countless theories.

Mr. Gibbons has created but a single eye so piercing one feels one is being watched by a wild animal. The brightness of the orb is enhanced by the use of an impressive gemstone of deep penetrating blue. Captain Digg, whom I confess has also seen the item, has identified it as a rare sapphire from the northern part of India.

The carving is housed within a closed cage made of a reddish metal and fitted with a lock whose key I keep on my person at all times. It cannot otherwise be opened. A fine silk cloth covers the cage, in order to give the illusion of transporting a live creature.

All in all, a most remarkable, not to say extravagant, gift that speaks of profound gratitude. Governor Hart deserves no less. He has been stalwart in supporting our family when others have vowed harm to the Calverts, and his loyalty has not gone unnoticed.

As I write this, I sense upon my neck the faintest stirring of air. It may be my imagination at work. One can only hope.

I think of you constantly. Until my return, I hope my words may provide some amusement.

Your loving fiancé,

William

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