I'm working  on a  new media kit for ONE MURDER MORE and would like to include  a statement  that I have "50+ Reviews on Amazon, averaging 5 stars"!  The (small) problem is I  actually have  46 reviews yielding that average. 

If you've not yet had a chance to review ONE MURDER MORE on Amazon, would you  be willing to do so this week to  help close that gap ? I think it will make  a good impression!

You don't need to have purchased ONE MURDER MORE on Amazon— go to your Amazon account, as you would to purchase anything, use the search bar to find ONE MURDER MORE, scroll down to click on "leave a review", choose a star total, and if you have time (optional!)  add a sentence or two about what engaged you with the book (characters, writing style, setting, etc).  Or simply say "great read!" (ha!) 

Any honest review helps.

Thanks for everything!

Kris

www.kriscalvin.com

I don't know whether the process of writing fiction interests you. 

I'm relatively new to it. For those of you who write, I'm curious whether things work like this for you or not.  For those of you who don't write fiction,  I wonder what you think of this.

Yesterday I shared with you a draft of  the first two chapters of A Timely Murder,  Book 2 in the Maren Kane Mystery Series. Afterwards, there was something about the ending to the first chapter that kept bothering me,  I didn't know exactly what, but it didn't feel right to me. 

 I don't outline. It's more like I see the characters in my novel starring in a newsreel in my head, and I write down what they're doing.  Once I feel  I have faithfully recorded "the news" as it appears to me,  I can use rewrites  to "fix the writing", but  I can't generally undo major things that have happened.   Sometimes I discard whole scenes or  add  new ones later,  but  that's not the same as  attempting to re-route  action within a scene once it is settled.  I don't know if I'm expressing this well, but perhaps  it will become clearer with this example.

When I didn't like the ending to  the draft of Chapter 1, I reread  what I'd written from the beginning, which  for me is like replaying the original newsreel. I made a few minor edits. Then I  opened up to the possibility that  the story  might continue where it had left off.  It did, and new things happened. I wrote them down.

In one way I was satisfied.  The "plot points" felt  accurate, if there can be such a thing. But  at the same time,  I  was shocked to find I was crying  as I wrote the last sentence.  I tried for several hours to convince myself that I'm  "in charge", that I don't  need to have any outcome  in any scene if  it makes me sad. I  can change it, I'm the writer.  But  this morning I learned definitively that it doesn't work that way, at least not for me. It may be that once I get further into the story I  can eliminate that   first scene altogether, and then something else might happen,  but  as  long as the scene and  the setup starts the way that it does now , I'm  incapable of having that scene end any other way. 

 So...

Here it is.

 A Timely Murder,  A Maren Kane Mystery Book 2, Chapter 1, Scene 1.

 Take 2...

Best,

Kris 

www.kriscalvin.com

draft

A TIMELY MURDER

A Maren Kane Mystery, Book 2

Kris Calvin

Chapter 1 (take 2)   

It looked like he’d just moved in, but Alibi Morning Sun had lived in his West Sacramento apartment for nearly three years.  Heavy cardboard packing boxes stacked on top of one another served as a nightstand next to his bed—a place to set keys, cell phone, bedtime reading and his service revolver, at the ready.

At 4:30 am on Tuesday when the call came from dispatch that a black male in his twenties was found shot to death near the Sacramento River, it took the detective under ten minutes to dress, finish half a cup of cold coffee sitting from the day before and make his way down to the complex’s parking garage to his state-issued Ford Taurus.

Dawn wouldn't break for at least another hour and the steely grey Sacramento sky was starless. But after 10 years on the force Morning Sun could navigate any part of his city blindfolded, relying only on the distinct sounds and smells of each neighborhood. 

When he pulled up in front of Officer Carlos Sifuentes’ cottage at 18th and Q, the front door was open and Alibi’s junior partner was saying goodbye to the toddler in his husband's arms. The domestic scene of two men and their child starting the day didn’t offend Morning Sun, although it did concern him in terms of time. From experience, he knew Sifuentes could make a sentence into a paragraph on any topic, even in conversation with a two-year-old. And the child was smiling, all the encouragement Sifuentes would need.

Morning Sun decided to give in to the moment of peace—it was still dark out and besides, the kid they had to see wasn't going anywhere, a few well-placed bullet holes had seen to that. So he closed his eyes and laid his head against the unforgiving vinyl seat of the Taurus.

“I'm thinking gang killing. Although it could be robbery.”  Sifuentes slid into the passenger seat, breaking into Morning Sun’s meditation as though they were in mid-conversation.  “If the beating at the mall hadn’t been posted on YouTube, I doubt we would have three drive-bys with two deaths in the span of less than a week.”

Morning Sun pulled from the curb without responding. There was no need, monologues were Carlos Sifuentes’ specialty.  Alibi figured there would come a time when the junior detective would adopt the curt, self-editing style that many cops used to conserve words and energy during their long days, but for now he enjoyed hearing his partner’s soft, lilting Latin accent. He found it soothing.

As he approached Longview Drive to cross Highway 80, Alibi felt the steering in the Taurus pull off-center to the right. It was an ongoing problem, he knew he needed to have a mechanic look at it. Might be something with the axle. So he was distracted when Sifuentes soliloquy on the sources of youth violence became something else. Sifuentes had to repeat himself, his voice lower now, urgent.

“There…see her? Slow down.”

Morning Sun gave into his car’s desire to head to the right, and pulled off on the shoulder.

He could see a woman on the wrong side of the worn chain-link fence that separated a narrow concrete walkway from the road he was on, the overpass that traversed the freeway from north to south. The morning light was just cresting over the horizon behind her. She was about 30 yards away, at the top of the grade, kneeling, arms outstretched skyward, her head up. Her back was to them.

He saw a gap in the fence almost directly across from his car. Probably access meant for use for inspection or maintenance, definitely not for pedestrians. A bent gate was hanging crookedly from one hinge, someone had broken the lock.

As he was considering what the woman’s intent might be and what they should do, she rose to one knee, then put her hands flat on the walkway for balance and pushed to standing.

Stout but short, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, she removed first her sweater, then pulled her T-shirt off over her head, revealing a plain beige bra. The line of her baggy jeans was encircled by a hot pink belt, a shock of color.

Morning Sun knew that if the woman was preparing for a swim, this was the wrong place for it. The Sacramento River was three miles south and there was solid concrete in all directions 50 yards below her.

He was calculating whether he could make it to the gap in the fence and then along the narrow walkway to where she stood before she jumped, if that was what she had in mind, when Sifuentes exited the car in one swift motion. Morning Sun could hear a slight squeal from the rubber on the bottom of his partner’s shoes as Sifuentes took off at a dead run, not towards the open gap, but directly at the woman. She straightened and began to turn her head, but in that time Sifuentes was already there and had grabbed onto her belt through the chain-link fence. She strained against his hold, screaming now, and the thin wire barrier bowed towards the edge, threatening to give way and take the woman and Sifuentes with it, in a swan dive with no end.

The woman kicked, wailed and writhed, the edges of her belt tearing into Sifuentes palms. 

Morning Sun reached the spot where Sifuentes stood, and found his hands too large to fit through the diamond shaped openings in the chain-link fence. So he put his arms around Sifuentes waist and leaned backwards, his weight helping to pull the fence back upright. There was something darkly comic about it, he thought, the woman on one side, he and Carlos on the other. A tug-of-war, except that it was anything but a game.

 Then he heard sirens, doors slamming, and the crackle of two-way radios. One black-and-white on the overpass behind him, and two forming an impromptu roadblock on the freeway below. Morning Sun hadn't noticed any passing traffic—it was 5 am and this wasn't a commuter’s route. But someone must've seen them and called it in.

Two officers approached. One helped to steady the fence—cut-rate, state-issued, it was bent from the struggle.  The other tried to reach through to grab the woman's wrist, but couldn't get a purchase on it. She was in motion in all directions.

Morning Sun stepped back, jogged towards the opening and made his way onto the walkway. He was a big man, in his fifties, carrying a few extra pounds, but more muscle than fat. He figured there was plenty of room if he was careful, a good three feet from the fence to the edge. Still, he didn't like it, it was a long way down. He kept one hand lightly on the chain-link for balance.

She hadn’t noticed him as far as he could tell, but she seemed to be giving up the fight—not kicking anymore, anyway. Maybe the uniformed cops and sirens made her realize they weren't going to let her do this.

He stepped slowly, quietly, and was 15 feet from her when she spoke the first sound she’d made that morning that wasn't a scream.

“Let me sit.”

She was trying to slide down with her back against the fence onto the walkway, but Sifuentes still had hold of her belt.

“Please. I just want to sit down.”

The junior detective made eye contact with Alibi, who shook his head no. He kept walking towards the woman, she in her bra and baggy jeans. She saw him now, on her side of the fence, the two of them. She was older than he’d first thought, deep lines around her eyes and mouth. Her chest and neck were flushed from the exertion.

“It will be ok," Alibi said. Although he didn't know if that was true. He didn't know what had brought her here. He didn't know what had made her want to die.

She looked smaller to him now, her shoulders slumped, her energy gone. When he reached her, he put his arms around the woman and held her close, not out of sympathy, although he felt that, but to keep her from the edge. He nodded to Carlos to release his hold on her belt, and when he did in one motion the woman tensed and jerked and pulled herself sideways off the edge, taking Detective Alibi Morning Sun with her.

I'd like you to be the first to  receive a preview of the opening pages of Book 2 in the Maren Kane series. The working title = A Timely Murder. (See if you can spy the small clue that generates the title...) The format may be funky when it translates to your email, and hopefully my rewrites will clean up  any rough edges in the prose. In any case, it's always a scary to take these first steps. But you have been here with me all along, making it possible. 

Thanks again for everything...

Kris Calvin 

www.kriscalvin.com

draft

A TIMELY  MURDER

A Maren Kane Mystery, Book 2

Kris Calvin

Chapter 1   

It looked like he’d just moved in, but Alibi Morning Sun had lived in his West Sacramento apartment for nearly three years.  Heavy cardboard packing boxes stacked on top of one another served as a nightstand next to his bed—a place to set keys, cell phone, bedtime reading and his service revolver, at the ready.

At 4:30 am on Tuesday when the call came from dispatch that a black male in his twenties was found shot to death near the Sacramento River, it took the detective under ten minutes to dress, finish half a cup of cold coffee sitting from the day before and make his way down to the complex’s parking garage to his state-issued Ford Taurus.

Dawn wouldn't break for at least another hour and the steely grey Sacramento sky was starless. But after 10 years on the force Morning Sun could navigate any part of his city blindfolded, relying only on the distinct sounds and smells of each neighborhood. 

When he pulled up in front of Carlos Sifuentes’ cottage at 18th and Q, the front door was open and Alibi’s junior partner was saying goodbye to the toddler in his husband's arms. The domestic scene of two men and their child starting the day didn’t offend Morning Sun, although it did concern him in terms of time. From experience, he knew Sifuentes could make a sentence into a paragraph on any topic, even in conversation with a two-year-old. And the child was smiling, all the encouragement Sifuentes would need.

Morning Sun decided to give into the moment of peace—it was still dark out and besides, the kid they had to see wasn't going anywhere, a few well-placed bullet holes had seen to that. So he closed his eyes and laid his head against the unforgiving vinyl seat of the Taurus.

“I'm thinking gang killing. Although I guess it could be robbery.”  Sifuentes slid into the passenger seat, breaking into Morning Sun’s meditation as though they were in mid-conversation.  “If the beating at the mall hadn’t been posted on YouTube, I doubt we would have six-drive-bys with four deaths in the span of less than a week.”

Morning Sun pulled from the curb without responding. There was no need, monologues were Carlos Sifuentes’ specialty.  Alibi figured there would come a time when the junior detective would adopt the curt, self-editing style that many cops used to conserve words and energy during their long days, but for now he enjoyed hearing his partner’s soft, lilting Latin accent. He found it soothing.

As he approached Longview Drive to cross Highway 80, Alibi felt the steering in the Taurus pull off-center to the right. It was an ongoing, if intermittent problem, maybe something with the axle. So he was distracted when Sifuentes soliloquy on the sources of youth violence became something else. Sifuentes had to repeat himself, his voice lower now, urgent.

“There…see her? Slow down.”

Morning Sun gave into his car’s desire to head to the right, and pulled off on the shoulder. He could see a woman on the wrong side of the worn chain-link fence  that separated a narrow concrete walkway from the road he was on, the overpass that traversed the freeway from north to south. The morning light was just cresting over the horizon behind her. She was about 30 yards away, at the top of the grade, kneeling, arms outstretched skyward, her head up. Her back was to them.

He saw a gap in the fence almost directly across from his car. A bent gate was hanging crookedly from one hinge, someone had broken the lock. Probably access meant for use for inspection or maintenance, definitely not for pedestrians.

As he was considering what the woman’s intent might be and what they should do, she rose to one knee, then put her hands flat on the walkway for balance and pushed to standing.

Stout but short, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, she removed first her sweater, then pulled her T-shirt off over her head, revealing a plain beige bra. The line of her baggy jeans was encircled by a hot pink belt, a shock of color.

Morning Sun knew that if the woman was preparing for a swim, this was the wrong place for it. The Sacramento River was three miles south and there was solid concrete in all directions 50 yards below her.

He was calculating whether he could make it to the gap in the fence and then along the narrow walkway to where she stood before she jumped, if that was what she had in mind, when Sifuentes exited the car in one swift motion. Morning Sun could hear a slight squeal from the rubber on the bottom of his partner’s shoes as Sifuentes took off at a dead run, not towards the open gap, but directly at the woman. She straightened and began to turn her head, but in that time Sifuentes was already there and had grabbed onto her belt through the chain-link fence. She strained against his hold, screaming now, and the thin wire barrier bowed towards the edge, threatening to give way and take the woman and Sifuentes with it, in a swan dive with no end.

The woman kicked, wailed and writhed, the edges of her belt tearing into Sifuentes palms. It was a tug-of-war that seemed destined to end badly.

Chapter 2

Maren Kane closed her front door firmly behind her and walked the 97 steps to Polly’s duplex across the street.  She knew the distance because she’d once lost a bet about it with her brother, Noel. Over or under a hundred, he’d asked. Maren didn’t have to think, given the choice, in every circumstance she picked  “over”.

Maren knocked once before entering, the two friends having long ago given up the formality of waiting for one another to be let in. She could hear Polly, but not see her, around the corner in the small kitchenette. Her friend seemed to be trying to keep her voice down, but frustration was clearly getting the better of her.

“On…On…Bloody hell. On, on, on!”

Once in view, Maren could see that Polly was addressing a shiny new cell phone lying on the counter. 

“On!” Polly said again, leaning closer to the phone’s speaker.

Barely five feet tall with short spiky brown hair and several piercings in each ear, at 35, three years younger than Maren, Polly had an elfin look that belied her no-nonsense nature.  When she saw Maren she stopped speaking to the mute phone and shrugged, scowling, then moved to fill a tea kettle with fresh water. Polly had lived in the states for over 10 years, but her British-born habits were deeply ingrained.

As Polly busied herself, Maren walked to the counter and observed the phone’s dark screen, then felt along both sides until she found a flat button, which she pushed and held down. A battery icon in green emerged as the phone powered up. But when Polly saw what Maren had done, she unceremoniously grabbed the phone and switched it off,

“No. That’s the point, it's to be voice-activated, “ she said, returning it to the countertop and stepping back. “You’re not to touch it at all. I knew Jake would like that, he's always going on about the latest this and the latest that.” 

Jake was Polly's 14-year-old son.  Make that 15, Maren thought, since today was his birthday. Two store-bought cupcakes, the cream-filled chocolate kind with white markings on top, and a card together on the kitchen table confirmed the occasion. Although Maren would've remembered in any event, as Jake was her godson, an honor bestowed on her belatedly but not without ceremony, when Jake was 10.

"I think voice commands will work once the phone is on," Maren offered. "I've never heard of being able to talk to your phone to start it. There may be a sleep mode or something, where it uses minimal energy, but I think it still needs to be powered up first."  Spotting a charger lying next to the phone's box on the counter, Maren moved a blue fruit bowl to get to a wall outlet and plugged it in.

"Could be, love" Polly conceded, calmer now as she carried two cups of tea to the table. 

Maren seated herself and lifted her cup, then thought better of it as heavy steam rose from the still steeping hot liquid.  Glancing at the digital clock on the stove, she saw that the display showed 6:42am, which Maren knew translated to 6:33am in the world at large. It occurred to Maren that it didn't bode well for Polly’s ability to unravel the secrets of Jake’s new phone that her friend hadn’t figured out how to set the electronic clock on her now several years old stove.

“Please activate.  On. ” Polly was talking to the phone’s screen again, although this time apparently hoping a kinder tone might work.

“Where’s Jake? Still sleeping?” Maren asked, hoping to distract her friend from what was clearly a fruitless endeavor.

Polly paused between commands, but didn’t break eye contact with the phone, as though not wanting to let it get away with anything.

“He and his mate, Danny, got in late yesterday from camp. It’s hard to believe they were there for over a month…On…on…on.”

Maren realized she should've known that nothing could break Polly’s laser-like focus when she got started on something, although Polly seemed able to incorporate conversation with Maren into the exercise.  “Not like when he was little, when every day that he was gone I wondered if he was still breathing. On…on…on.”

Maren didn’t have children, but her beloved dog, Camper, adopted as a stray, was nearly six years old, and Maren felt his absence strongly the few times he’d been away at the vet overnight. She noticed it most when she was able to leave pizza on the table and not worry that it would disappear in its entirety when the always-hungry dog made his move. Camper looked mostly like a black lab, but his strong head and jaws revealed pit bull heritage that had proven protective for Maren, although not so much for birds or skunks that made their way into her yard.

"So you never found Jake’s old phone?” Maren asked, between sips of the hibiscus herbal tea, which was delicious.

"No. I’m sure it's here somewhere. Jake and I agreed the last time he had it was the night before he left for camp, talking on it in his room. I searched, but after an initial attempt under the bed and behind the desk I figured it would take a bloody archaeological team in haz-mat suits to unearth it.” She refilled her tea as she spoke, then rose and went to the pantry, returning with store-bought pastries with a bright orange filling that Maren hoped was apricot and not cheddar cheese, given the chemicals it would take to preserve the shelf life of unrefrigerated dairy. Polly didn't bother herself with those things, but as a lobbyist who often worked on environmental issues, Maren did.

“Plus, I couldn't figure what to get him for his birthday since he had a new saxophone last year. Then I remembered that he was due a phone upgrade, and once we find the old one, we can sell it, I gather there’s a market for recent phones that work. The folks at the mobile store were great, I was able to transfer over his old number to this one.”

Maren tore off a piece of pastry and took a tentative bite, crumbs and something orange and oozy flaking onto her favorite Dr. Who t-shirt. No matter, she’d be changing out of it soon. Most mornings before work the two women went to the high school track at the end of their street, where Maren walked and sipped the rest of her tea while Polly mostly ran circles around her, although occasionally slowing to walk a lap or two.  Maren would swim later at the pool for her exercise.

“I’ve only got to get into my trainers.” Polly was otherwise ready in full workout regalia—matching black running shorts and black Lycra tank top with green trim and a green wristband. But she was barely through the swinging door that led out of the kitchen when Jake’s new phone emitted a blaring, beeping noise. Maren jumped up just as Polly pushed back through the door and in a stage whisper hissed, “Answer it, it'll wake the boys.” Maren tapped the speaker icon, the quickest way she knew to silence the thing.

A woman's voice filled the room. “Michael? Where are you?” She had a slight accent that Maren found hard to place.

Polly was standing next to Maren now. “There's no Michael here, love, you've got the wrong number."

“You get him right now," the woman said. “Don't give me nonsense about a wrong number.”

Polly raised her eyebrows and looked at Maren before trying again. “What number are you calling?”

“I’m not giving you a number. Stop playing games and put my Michael on the line.”

“There is no Michael here,” Polly said.

“Oh, is that right?  Then why do you have my son’s phone? I’m tired of your tricks, get me my boy.” 

“Your son’s phone?" Polly's brows furrowed as she gave Maren a quizzical look.

“Yes. His phone. You’re talking on my Michael’s phone, as if you didn’t know. And you can tell him if he doesn't come speak to me right now he’s going to regret it.”

“There's   been a mix-up,” Polly said. “If you give me the number, I'm sure we can sort it…”

At first there was no response. Then the woman reeled off the number, exasperation evident in every digit.

Maren recognized the number as Jake's, she’d had to call it often enough to ask him to walk Camper when she was delayed getting home.

“Yes, that’s my son’s…” Polly said, not finishing the sentence as Maren saw realization reflected in her friend’s eyes. “ When did your son get his phone? Where did he get it?" Polly asked.

“ I don't see how that’s any business of yours,” the woman snapped.

Russian, Maren thought, placing the accent at last. 

“A gift?" Polly asked.

The woman's sigh was audible, her voice slowed. She sounded tired. “Yes, a gift. A friend gave it to him. A few weeks ago. OK? Now please get Michael. I’m worried.”

Maren wondered how Polly was going to deliver the blow.

“It seems your son, Michael, accidentally ended up with my son’s mobile. You know how kids are, mine likely left it somewhere, then your son's friend found it, didn't know how to locate the owner, figured it was old and unwanted and made a gift of it.”

Maren thought that scenario was about as likely as the new phone on the counter coming to life while powered down and singing an operatic aria, but she had to credit her friend’s kindness.

“I had my son’s mobile—the one your son has—switched off yesterday. It won't work anymore,” Polly said. “But I’d love to get it back, it has photos on it, things we can't replace. Could we meet?”

There wasn’t a click, not like in the old days when  hanging up produced  a distinctive sound. But there was no mistaking the phone’s screen going dark, the only response to Polly’s request.

TODAY'S THE DAY! 

https://www.strandmag.com/mystery-center/

My Top 10 Political Thrillers List  is featured  today at The Strand magazine online!  

English writer Chris Willis had this to say about The Strand in its original print incarnation: " Not many magazines can count Queen Victoria and Winston Churchill among their former contributors. featuring the works of some of the greatest authors of the 20th century including Graham Greene, Agatha Christie, Rudyard Kipling, G.K.Chesterton, Leo Tolstoy, Georges Simenon and, of course, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle." (Yep, that last name is right, Sherlock Holmes got his start  in a short story in The Strand!)

Please go to the  link below to view my Top 10. It will help  immensely if this prestigious magazine sees that people read what I've written there! It's rotating with two other featured posts on the home page, so please give it a second and you can click on  mine.) And if you're willing to, please leave a comment—perhaps you've also read one on my list, or have one to add? 

https://www.strandmag.com/mystery-center/

Secondly, thanks so much to all who have somehow found the time to read One Murder More and review it on Amazon. When I'm  fortunate enough to receive  social media attention like today (due to The Strand post), potential readers go in great numbers  to Amazon to my book page. I would love to get to 50 reviews to really draw in new readers, so if you have not yet done  a review and can possibly carve out the time, it's quick, and you don't need to have bought One Murder More on Amazon.  Click the Amazon icon  on the home page at  www.kriscalvin.com then scroll down to "leave a review", choose a star total and mention something that connected you with the book. (Don't be daunted by the several long, long  reviews already up, those are  in the  minority and generally left by folks who  review many books.)

Thanks again for everything! You made this happen, I'm forever grateful.

Kris

https://www.strandmag.com/mystery-center/