Sorry I haven’t checked in since late July. I’ve been writing! My eyes are doing better in the sense I’ve been able to tolerate longer and longer periods at the computer. Here’s an update:
Divorce Can Be Deadly (Dr. Benjamin Bones Mysteries #2): I’m very pleased by how this one is coming along, and I hope when it arrives, you’ll agree it was worth the wait. I’m close to finishing it up–after which comes the rewrite, the editing, the proofing, and publishing.
Dr. Bones and the Christmas Wish: I’m almost done with this one. It’s a novella set right after DCBD, and will be included in a Christmas-themed anthology called Romancing Christmas 2. Watch this space for publishing news on that book, which may introduce you to some new favorite authors. And yes, the anthology is about romance, so draw your own conclusions on that score.
Blue Blooded (Lord & Lady Hetheridge Mysteries #5): Yesterday, I glanced at my phone and saw a wonderfully prescient message. It was from a reader who said she needed more Hetheridges, and was waiting patiently. I usually answer all queries first thing the next morning, but I couldn’t find it today–not on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, or my email. (LOL, I am over-connected, like most of us.) However, I was amazed to see that message at that moment, because during the long drive back from my hairdresser*, the opening paragraphs of Blue Blooded came to me. That’s a sure sign my work on DCBD is coming to a close.
So for that reader–sorry I can’t locate your message–and anyone else who may be interested, here’s what my first draft of those opening paragraphs looks like. Not fine-tuned, not edited, but right out of my word processor, to show you Dr. Bones will soon return and the Hetheridges will be next up to bat.
Anthony Hetheridge, ninth baron of Wellegrave and former chief superintendent for New Scotland Yard, welcomed the spring. In January, he’d been forced out of his distinguished career by old enemies who’d long been sharpening their knives. In February, he’d returned to the Yard as a consultant, allowing him to do things heretofore only dreamt of; namely, billing by the hour, ignoring internal politics, and going home each day at five o’clock. In March, as daffodils sprang up all over London and pink camellia trees spilled over wrought iron fences, Tony completed the byzantine obstacle course necessary to receive his private investigator’s license. Now it was April— unusually sunny, unseasonably warm, and full of surprises.
On April fifth, his brother-in-law, Ritchie Wakefield, had modified the shape of a Lego brick by heating it with a cigarette lighter. In the process, he’d set alight a two-hundred-year-old French mahogany sofa. This had caught the nearby Italian silk brocade curtains on fire, which went up like tissue paper. Half of Tony’s ancestral London townhouse, Wellegrave House, had been burned out. Thankfully, no one was injured. As his wife Kate raged, his assistant Mrs. Snell tutted, and his manservant Harvey wept, Tony decided that he, too, would abandon British reserve and vent his true feelings on the matter: he chucked what survived and hired an interior designer to chase away the ghosts of Hetheridges past.
No more living in a museum, he thought, smiling as he passed from kitchen to stairs, a cup of tea in hand. Things are quiet at the Yard. Now all I need is a case.
*Redhead by choice