https://bookswelove.net/havelange-joan/
I recently watched a
documentary on Agatha Christie. I’m a big fan of the queen of cozy
mysteries/whodunits. (Agatha did not like the term cozy.) She wrote 66
whodunits and 15 short stories. She is acclaimed as the most successful author
of all time. And at the time of this documentary. She had sold 2 billion books.
So that does tell us something about our love affair with mysteries.
A mystery allows us to
enter dangerous situations without real-life risks. And unlike real life, the
perpetrator gets his or her just desserts. We like to see if we can see past the
red herrings and decipher the clues. And solve the puzzle before the end of the
book.
It’s up to the author to
build anticipation and excitement. And have us, the reader, care about what
happens to the character who only lives on the pages of the mystery.
I write whodunits/cozy
mysteries. I like to get my protagonists into dangerous and sometimes humorous
predicaments. And then see if I can get them out unscathed.
My first mystery “Wayward
Shot’ is set in a small rural town, Glenhaven, Saskatchewan. This cozy
mystery features golf (a sport I love and wish I was better at.)
My inspiration for this
story came from a golf game. My playing partner’s drive went over a hill. And
he said, “Wouldn’t it be funny if we found someone with the words Titleist
imprinted on their forehead?” We didn’t, thank goodness. But the idea for my first
mystery. A murder on a golf course took place. And I wrote ‘Wayward Shot.’
When
Mabel slices her golf ball into the town cemetery. She and her best friend
Violet think the worst that could happen would be a lost ball. That is until
they discover a dead body, and it isn’t six feet under. Mabel’s golf ball lies
in the middle of his forehead. It’s murder.
The
ladies take it upon themselves to solve the mystery of the dead body in the
graveyard. Using the information gleaned from Coffee Row, a collection of
eccentric townspeople. This leads them to investigate golfers and relatives of
the deceased. Their investigation frustrates a newly appointed RCMP officer,
who does his best to put a stop to their interference.
But
nothing stops the intrepid detectives. Not the RCMP, a stampede of cattle, or
even shots fired at them in the dark. They have an uncanny ability to find
trouble and dead bodies. Almost getting themselves killed before solving the
murders.
Excerpt from Wayward Shot
Mabel parked the little white
golf cart beside the low stone fence.
Violet donned the golf visor that
matched her golf shirt and shorts. She tucked her long red hair neatly into place, climbed over the wall into the cemetery, and
searched for Mabel’s lost golf ball.
At barely five feet, Mabel
struggled to hitch her well-padded body onto the stone wall. At the top, she paused and looked across to the black, wrought-iron
gates covering the roadside entrance. A long grassy lane divided the cemetery.
The newer graves were on the left of the lane, with the older moss-covered
tombstones on the right. The hot July sun beat down on Mabel’shead, and she
pulled her T-shirt from the band of her jean shorts before jumping down into
the graveyard.
“Hey, it’s your ball,” Violet
called. “Get busy and look. We need to get out of here.”
“Don’t get your knickers in a
knot. I am looking, and make sure you watch where you’rewalking.”
“Watch for what?” Violet trotted
along a row of gravestones. She disappeared behind a black onyx angel in a prayerful
pose.
“Watch for holes, that’s what.”
Mabel’s feet crunched the dry grass as she walked toward a grave with a broken headstone.
“There aren’t any open graves,”
Violet called back. “I’m pretty sure I would see one if therewas. I’m not likely to fall into a hole.”
“No, but there are lots of gopher
holes. Those little beggars are everywhere. If you step in a hole, you could sprain an ankle.” Mabel jumped as a grasshopper
flew up into her face. Brushingit away, she continued to scan the dry grass
growing alongside the graves.
“I’m careful. I’m not worried
about gopher holes, but I sure don’t want to step on anygraves.
What are you hitting?” Violet, popping up from behind a black angel, held a
golf ball.
“Is that a Spaulding number two?”
Mabel asked. “I’m betting there are lots of lost balls inhere. This is a popular spot if you slice your ball off the tee.”
She looked across at Violet in timeto see her friend pocketing the found golf
ball. Violet disappeared again, this time behind a large white marble
tombstone.
“Shank dear, it’s called a shank.
I’m sure you hit the ball off the hosel. Or maybe it was a slice? Whatever it was, I know you don’t want to repeat it.”
“Oh my God, I’ve killed him!”
Mabel shrieked.
“They’re all dead here, dear. And
you’re right. This graveyard is a gold mine. There seem to be lots of lost golf balls. People must be either too squeamish or
too superstitious to come into the cemetery to retrieve their lost ball. I’ve
already picked up three.”
“No, no, come here,” Mabel
yelled. When Violet reached her side, Mabel pointed in horror at a dead man lying spread-eagled between two tombstones. “That’s
my golf ball lying between his eyes. Oh, my God, it’s Allen Franklyn, and I’ve
killed him!”
“Maybe he’s just knocked out.” Violet
dropped another golf ball into her pocket. Both women stared down at the large
man who lay lifeless between a row of gravestones. He looked surprised,
in an odd sort of way.
“Oh dear,” Mabel’s voice
trembled. She tucked her golf glove into her pocket and crouched
beside Allen Franklyn’s body, gingerly picking up his wrist, then gently laying
his hand back down. “He’s dead.”
“You didn’t mean to do it. It was
an accident. Who knew your golf ball would end up here killing
Allen?” Violet put her arm around Mabel, patting her shoulder.
“No, no, it wasn’t me.”
“Well, actually it was you. I saw
you hit the ball, but don’t worry. I know it was anaccident.” Violet knelt beside
the body, took off her golf glove, and prodded the ball stuck in themiddle of
the man’s forehead. “Yep, it’s a Spaulding number two.”
“No, I didn’t do it.”
Violet stood, dusting the dirt
off her knees. “Mabel. It’s no use fooling yourself, you hit the ball, and there it is, lying between Allen’s eyes.”
“I’m telling you, it’s not my fault.”
Mabel folded her arms across her chest and stuck out her chin.
“Seriously, get a grip.” Violet
looked at Mabel with concern. “No one will accuse you of murder. I looked. It’s your ball, a Spaulding number two.”
“He’s cold, cold, cold. If my
golf ball killed Allen, he would still be warm, but he’s not. He’s cold.” Mabel’s voice rose in frustration.
“Oh, well, that’s lucky, isn’t
it? Well, not for Allen, of course, but you’re in the clear. Are you sure he’s cold?”
“Do you want to feel him?”
“No, I believe you.” Violet
thoughtfully gazed down at the dead man. “Poor Allen, I wonder what happened to him?”
“I’ve no idea. I’m just glad I’m
not the cause of his death.”
“Me too. I guess we should do
something.”
Find me at
https://bookswelove.net/havelange-joan/
https://books2read.com/Wayward-Shot
https://www.facebook.com/mabelmysteries
https://www.instagram.com/joanhave/
Cozy mysteries are fun to read. I love Agatha Christie's books. Wayward Shot definitely has an intriguing start. Thanks for sharing.
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