COLD COMFORT- Christmas

Mistletoe display

Cold Comfort takes place in Williamsburg, VA, during December. Here's a short excerpt from Chapter 2. This is where Riley, the reluctant investigator, first goes to Claire Spencer's Christmas shop, Mistletoe, and sees Claire. 

If she's picket fences, he's barbed wire. Opposites do attract.

Through the window, he saw hundreds of tiny white lights peeking through the greenery festooned from the ceiling. The warm glow of a village peopled with moving figures showed between the branches of a fir tree, and a little skater twirled on a glass lake. He could see why the kids were fascinated. The scene came straight from a fairy tale. Magic. Geez. Just his kind of case. He'd go in, take a quick look, and get out. For Ray, he'd check out the situation, but he wasn't committing to anything.

Sugar and spice and everything nice. The old nursery rhyme came back to him as he entered the shop and inhaled the tang of fresh evergreens mingled with...cinnamon? It could have been worse—at least some of the trees were real. He sniffed again. Apple cider? Drawn by the scent, he followed his nose.

The aisles meandered through the store like paths in a forest—nothing square or aligned. He recognized Mary, a tall, elegant woman in a loose, African-patterned dress, from several years ago. She stood chatting with a young couple beside an electric train display. He stayed out of her line of sight, hiding behind a tree decorated with ribbons and dead flowers. "Dried" was probably the politically correct description he decided, stifling a sneeze.

Riley worked his way toward the rear of the shop until, over the lilting strains of "Greensleeves," he heard a woman say, "You can have a cup of cider if you sit quietly and listen to the story."

He recognized Claire's voice from the phone. Peering around a six-foot-tall gingerbread house, he saw several children, all clutching small paper cups, sitting on a rug in front of a cozy fake fireplace. When she pressed a button on an old tape player, starting "The Night before Christmas," the children sat spellbound.

Through the branches of a tree, he studied her. Wavy, nut-brown hair in a loose knot on top of her head, almost a Gibson girl style, emphasized her gentle, somewhat old-fashioned look. The knot listed to the left and a few strands hung loose. Must be a bad day—that he could understand. The woman fit the voice. If this represented Claire Spencer's life, maybe she'd magnified a common robbery into an attack by a stalker to add a little excitement. She could have done the doll too, just to jack up the stakes.

He didn't expect to like her, and he was damn sure she wouldn't like him.

Then one kid pushed another, and a shoving match began. The ladylike Miss Spencer surprised him with the no-nonsense tone of a nun. "Boys! Sit down and behave. You know the rules." She turned toward Riley and smiled. "Two strikes and you're out."

Busted. He nodded and turned away, pretending to examine the contents of a basket.

"May I help you find something?" She appeared at his elbow, wearing a solemn expression.

"Uh, yes. I'm trying to find something for my nephew." He looked down at her. Clear ivory skin with a hint of pink in her cheeks, eyes like a bright October sky. Although she wasn't classically beautiful, her coloring would have made Botticelli weep. If he were a portrait painter....

"Interesting choice," she said.

In the subdued lighting he couldn't be sure, but he thought those cerulean eyes held a twinkle. He glanced down to see his "choice," a basket of pearly pink ornaments. Super sleuth strikes again. "I'll take three of these—for his mother. She likes pink."

After paying for the useless stuff, he made a hasty retreat. Safely outside in the cold, he checked his watch. Five twenty. Time enough for coffee after a quick tour to check the rear access to Mistletoe. Resigned, he reminded himself he owed Ray. He would do it for Ray.
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Interests, Artists, and Characters

J.M.W.Turner. Death on a Pale Horse.
1825-1830. Oil on canvas. Tate Gallery, London .

I enjoy art and paintings, even thought I might be a fine artist once upon a time. That was before I jumped from a tiny pond into a big one and found I wasn't as good as I'd thought. 

The Tate Gallery in London owns paintings by some of my favorite artists: J.M.W. Turner, Camille Pissarro, Paul Cézanne, and so many others. Impressionists and romanticists especially draw me. Years ago, I spent some happy hours at the Tate, absorbing the magic of those masters. And to add to my experience, I went in a London taxi, one of those black, old-fashioned-looking cars where the doors open backward. And finished with a proper English tea. Heaven.

So, based on those experiences and dreams, I made the hero in Cold Comfort an artist (among other things). Riley's paintings are dark and stormy, reflecting his view of life. He's a sailor, so much of his work involves rough seas and sails whipping in the wind. I (and therefore he) love J. M. W. Turner. Riley's style is similar but bolder, depicting harsh seascapes. In his house, Claire finds a small painting that gives a clue to the images that haunt Riley's dreams. 

Joseph Mallord William Turner (1775–1851)

The Shipwreck

circa 1805. Oil on canvas

Current location: Tate Britain

In her house, Claire has a portrait of her mother by contemporary Alabama artist Jackie Williams and a reproduction of Norham Castle by Turner, which added to Riley's interest. I'm not sure mention of Norham Castle survived one of my revisions, but it's there in her living room. Trust me, I know.

That's one of the benefits of being a writer. You can create worlds, situations, dream up characters, and give them the ability to cope with it all.

Do your interests drift into your writing? Do your characters sometimes fulfill unrealized dreams? 

Aftermath

This is an excerpt from Cold Comfort. Riley has just heard from Claire for the first time and doesn't want to get involved in her problem.

Chapter 2

Riley hung up the phone and curled his lip in disgust. "A stalker. The woman watches too much TV. Probably a simple mugging that scared her stupid." 

A large, gray-striped cat opened one eye and flicked a notched ear, then returned to his nap on the desk. Absently scratching the cat's scarred head with one hand, Riley picked up a stained mug, only to find the coffee cold. "Damn."

He fished a notepad out of his desk drawer and scribbled Call Ray across the top. The phone sat six inches from the pad. He reread his note and added "Later" in large letters. The numerals on his clock changed to 6:21. Claire Spencer's voice echoed in his head. Mugger or not, fear lent a hollow note to her voice. The pencil snapped in two between his fingers, surprising him. He stood, shoved his chair away, and threw the stub at the fireplace.

The river outside Riley's house

Running his hands through his hair, he crossed the room to the window. The river, choppy and gray, gave way to memories. A girl's face, her mouth stretched in a scream, swam into his vision. Christ. He knew the image would keep him awake tonight. Why did Ray give this woman his name? Did he think Riley could handle an easy problem like Spencer's? A quick fix that would lure him back to a job he could no longer do? Not bloody likely.

* * *

At eight thirty the phone rang. Riley swung the ax, sinking it into the log, and went inside to answer. The pile of wood he'd just split ought to last him a month. He brushed his hands on his jeans and grabbed the phone before his "Leave a message" started. "Hold on." He switched off the machine. "Yeah?"

"Dammit, Riley," Ray Bonney's voice boomed over the line, "you could at least talk to her. The woman needs help. She's got a goose egg and stitches in her head, and now the bastard's been in her shop."

"The Spencer woman?" Riley wasn't getting suckered into another job, especially one involving a woman. Especially an injured woman. Never again. "Forget it. I'm through. Tell her to call the police or a private eye."

"She did. The cops can't do anything and PIs are too expensive. Come on, Riley."

"If she can't afford them, she sure as hell can't afford me."

"You don't need money."

"That's not the point. I'm through. No more." Silence. Riley waited, preparing himself for Ray's next argument.

"She's a good lady. My sister Mary works in her store, but there's more. They're friends. I like Claire. Don't want to see her hurt, by anybody." He paused and then said, "I'm asking you, Riley."

Ray's hole card. If he'd use it, the woman meant a great deal to him. Riley traced a finger over the scar next to his heart, then wiped his hand over his face. He couldn't refuse. "You'd better tell me what you know. I didn't get much information."

"That means you didn't want much. She's kind of reserved—a little old-fashioned. You snarl at her?" Ray snorted. "Put her off, most likely."

"If you want me to help her, tell me what's going on—someone might be following her? Someone tried to attack her? She sounded like a flake."