In the right place: Locating your characters where they belong donalee Moulton

 

                              Hung Out to Die

Céad míle fáilte. This Gaelic expression means “a hundred thousand welcomes.” If you live in Nova Scotia, as I do, this is an expression you will have seen for much of your life. (Pronouncing it is a different issue altogether.) A hundred thousand welcomes in any language speaks to the type of people you are likely to encounter when you come here and the values they place on such encounters.

Riel Brava – attractive, razor-sharp, ambitious, and something much more – is the lead character in my new mystery, Hung Out to Die. He lives in Elmsdale, Nova Scotia, about a 40-minute drive from Halifax, the province’s capital. In East Coast parlance, Riel is a come from away.

Raised in Santa Barbara, California, Riel has been transplanted to Nova Scotia where he is CEO of the Canadian Cannabis Corporation – one of the estimated four to twelve percent of CEO’s who are psychopath. It’s business as usual until Riel finds his world hanging by a thread. Actually, several threads. It doesn’t take the police long to determine all is not as it appears. That includes Riel himself.

Pulled into a world not of his making, Riel resists the hunt to catch a killer. Resistance is futile. Detective Lin Raynes draws the reluctant CEO into the investigation, and the seeds of an unexpected and unusual friendship are sown. Raynes and Riel concoct a scheme to draw a confession out of the killer, but that plan is never put into place. Instead, Riel finds himself on the butt end of a rifle in the ribs and a long drive to the middle of Nowhere, Nova Scotia.

Fact is, I could have placed Riel in the middle of anywhere. The murder is not location specific. The victim does not fall from the Brooklyn Bridge or mysteriously appear atop Old Faithful, places that are singular. Nova Scotia made sense for me as a writer, and it made sense for Riel as a character. I live here; I know this province better than any other place. I can write about it with ease, and with a personal perspective.

For Riel, who lives uncomfortably in a world where people hug each other because they care and share the pain of others because their brain is wired that way, being in a place where he does not have roots, where he is an outsider, mirrors what goes on within Riel. It’s the right place for him.

Because I am from Nova Scotia, I can also authentically and naturally insert elements of life here. Take the language, for instance. You may discover some new words such as bejesus and tinchlet. There will be expressions common to the area. “Bless your heart” is one you’ll hear a lot in Nova Scotia, and Riel hears it as well.

There is also food that has Nova Scotia marinated into it, as Riel discovers. Here’s an excerpt of Riel discovering a donair for the first time:

 

Raynes looks like he’s getting ready to leave. Looks can be deceiving. He lingers for a second. “Have you ever had a donair?”

 Donairs are a Halifax specialty. Some residents contend this is Nova Scotia’s official food. Aficionados spend a great deal of time discussing the nuances of the dish, thin slices of spiced beef on a warm pita, sprinkled with diced onion and tomato, and swimming in a sweet, garlicky sauce. Or so I’ve been told. To answer Raynes’s question, “No, I’ve never had a donair.”

“Let’s go.” He pauses for a split second. “I won’t tell Tiffany.”

I’m in. We head to the Donair Queen in Elmsdale, a play, I assume, on the King of Donair in Halifax, where the dish is said to have originated. I let Raynes order for me. “Two donairs,” he says. Apparently, it’s not complicated.

The decor is fast food meets comfort food. You order cafeteria-style and either head out or grab a seat. Most people do the former. A few plastic chairs and tables are scattered at the back of the restaurant. Raynes and I stake out a table in the corner. Only one other person is eating inside.

For the next 15 minutes, Raynes and I concentrate on demolishing our donair. It’s not as easy as it sounds. The meat, toppings, and sauce are rammed into a loosely folded pita and blanketed with a small piece of tinfoil. No matter where you bite, something falls out or spills over from another place. I see why Raynes grabbed a large handful of napkins.

“What do you think?” Raynes asks when we’ve finally swallowed the last sloppy morsel.

 “I think I’m in heaven. Let’s do this every week. And if Tiffany finds out, my marriage will be over.”

One of the things I have learned as a writer is that I am in control, and I am not in control. I can decide to situate a character in a particular place, and the character will let me know if that is the right place as the writing unfolds. In the case of Riel, he ends up in the dark of winter at a deserted row of cottages called, what else, Céad míle fáilte.

I did not see that coming. I have a feeling Riel did.

 

                                                              Hung Out to Die