All in a Day's Work Or How to Make Good Use of a Distraction by Tia Dani

Since there are two of us, wouldn't you think we could finish a book in record time? Sure, we both have busy lives. We have husbands, kids, grandkids, housework, other careers and hobbies (well, Tia has hobbies, Dani just plays) but that's another blog for a later time. Like we said, we are both fully committed to our writing.  So what happens that we can't seem, to finish a project?

Life happens. Not always in a mundane way.

Take the other day for example. Our plan was to meet up at Tia's house and not leave until we had completed the next phase of editing our work in progress. Which, by the way, it is going to be an awesome blend of the present and past, with elements of paranormal, regression, and plenty of romance. But when Dani pulled into Tia's driveway she was met with a frantic Tia waving her arms. She needed help with an unexpected emergency.

The emergency was a baby bird that had fallen from its palm tree nest near the front of Tia's house. Tia was certain it was an owl and we needed to find a rescue place quick. Someone needed to come get the bird before it died. She had already called two places who both told her they don't take in raptor species. Raptors?!? Aren't they supposed to be those honking, huge birds during the dinosaur age?

We made several more calls to animal shelters and finally were directed to a place that would take in raptors. Only problem, they didn't pick up. We had to deliver.

Twenty minutes later we had packed the back seat of Dani's car with the make shift cage, which was really a crate with a lid over the top to hold the tiny ball of white feathers. Off we went with the directions programed into the GPS system. It took us almost 45 minutes on the freeway to the exit we needed to take us north to Cave Creek and the bird hospital.

At this point, we should let you know Dani is not really fond of birds. Not that she doesn't like them, it's just she's sorta afraid of them.

When she called her husband to let him know where she was headed he said, "You are what?"

"Rescuing a bird."

"That's what I thought you said. You have a bird in your car?"

"Yes. We are saving his life."

"Ooookay. Good luck"

Meanwhile Tia is yelping and leaning over the seat, trying to keep the tiny owl from squeezing through the holes in the grate and jumping out of the box. Miniature fuzzy feathers are flying everywhere. With all the commotion we missed the turn off and had to do a U-turn and go back to where the GPS was insisting we should go in the first place. It was a winding dirt road with large pot holes. We bounced along making the odd turns, when told by the voice that seemed quite sure of where we were going. Us not so much.

In the distance we saw a sign and perched on top was a metal hawk with the large wings spread wide. WILD AT HEART. Yep, we had reached our destination. 

Relieved we pulled in and parked. Not only had we arrived safe and sound, our little owl was still alive. Tia retrieved her precious cargo from the back seat. Dani stayed a safe distance away.

Off we went to find a doctor.

We were greeted immediately and our little guy was taken to be examined.

After a thorough examination we were assured he would be fine. He was wrapped in a warm blanket and placed into an incubator where he would be watched for several days. Then they broke the news to Tia that her baby was not an owl but actually a falcon.

"What!" Tia exclaimed. "It must be an owl. He's so small and his feathers are white. And just look at his cute little face. He must be an owl?"

The examining veterinarian assured Tia her bird was definitely a falcon.

While we were in the critical-care room, a landscaper from the near-by golf course brought in a severely injured hawk.
We were allowed to stay and watch as they examined him, feed him an antibiotic stuffed into a dead baby mouse. (Here's where Tia nearly lost it…Abandoned baby bird fine. Poor dead baby mouse…ugh.)

Who knew?

Once our sweet raptor was snuggled in and sleeping, we were invited to look around at all the wild raptor birds they had in their outside sanctuary. We could stay as long as we wanted. Tia immediately took advantage of their generous offer and pulled along the reluctant Dani outside to see the many different kind of birds.

It was a wonderful day of adventure. Needless to say we didn't get any writing done that day, but we did help save a life.

Which is okay because there's always tomorrow.

And who knows, our little adventure might just end up in a book someday.

Wild At Heart is a non-profit 501(c)3 organization dedicated to the conservation and preservation of Arizona's native birds of prey. http://wildatheartraptors.org/

To find out more about the writing team Tia Dani and our books visit us at: 

http://bookswelove.com/authors/tia-dani/
https://tiadaniauthor.wordpress.com/

Time's Enduring Love, our historical time-travel is a Books We Love Best Seller.
To purchase click this link.
http://amzn.com/B00EVXABV0

Valentine memories by Sheila Claydon

At the end of my last post I promised to introduce you to Lady Sippington. Unfortunately she has proved to be a little shy and has begged me to keep her secret for a while longer. She will feature on the Books We Love blog eventually, however. Today, instead, I'll talk about something else and what better on 14 February than Valentine's Day because this year it is a very special day for me.

On 14 Feb 1965 my husband and I had our very first date, so Valentine's Day 2015 is the fiftieth anniversary of the first time we went out together. Now although I write contemporary romantic fiction I can't pretend that we are the most romantic couple. Valentine days have passed without us remembering. We've even managed to forget our wedding anniversary on more than one occasion, but I can still remember that first date as if it were yesterday.

I wore a Mary Quant little black dress (if you are as old as me you might remember her...very sixties) and a Mary Quant hairstyle of sharp bob and geometric fringe, and probably too much make-up. I really thought I was something. Fortunately my husband-to-be thought so too.  Also, somewhat shamefully, I was wearing a corsage of orchids that had been sent to me by someone else, but let's gloss over that.

My date, an older man by four years who actually owned a car, took me to a nightclub...my first. I don't suppose it was much more than a couple of smoke filled rooms and a bar that served little more than beer and soft drinks, but to me it felt like the most sophisticated date ever. I remember shuffling around a dance floor that was so crowded that actual dancing was impossible. Shortly before midnight, like Cinderella, it was time for him to take me home, but not before we enjoyed the ultimate in high cuisine...the bacon and egg sandwich with brown sauce which was the house speciality!

It didn't quite end there, however, because on the way home it started to snow. Of course we didn't think of the danger of driving in slippery conditions because at that age we were immortal, nor did we worry that the forty minute journey took almost two hours, but my mother did! She was waiting up for me and I can still 'see' the expression on her face when I opened the door. To say she was displeased is an understatement, especially as I was on a first date with someone she didn't know and he had delivered me home late.

Fortunately she wasn't someone to  hold a grudge and they eventually became firm friends. And in the words of Jane Eyre...reader...I married him...almost a year to the day after that first date. We have travelled a mile or two since then and are well past our sell by date now...but we still remember.

What about you?  What memories does Valentine's Day stir, and what about your first date with your partner? Do you still remember it?

Happy Valentine's Day.

First dates feature in quite a few of my books. You can find many of them at  http://bookswelove.net/# and all of them are available at http://amzn.to/ZSyLpf.  In Saving Katy Gray, Book 3 of my When Paths Meet trilogy, Katy's first date is not at all what she expected.

Where No One Has Gone Before: World Building

“It is necessary to create constraints, in order to invent freely… In fiction, the surrounding world provides the constraint. This has nothing to do with realism… A completely unreal world can be constructed, in which asses fly and princesses are restored to life by a kiss; but that world, purely possible and unrealistic, must exist according to structures defined at the outset (we have to know whether it is a world where a princess can be restored to life only by the kiss of a prince, or also by that of a witch, and whether the princess’s kiss transforms only frogs into princes or also, for example, armadillos).”— Umberto Eco, postscript to The Name of the Rose.

 One of my greatest pleasures as a writer of historical fiction is researching the period in which I’ve chosen to set my stories. At the same time it is my hope to re-create the worlds in which they take place as believably and accurately as possible. It’s fun and enlightening, and also sparks ideas for the plot as a whole or a concept for a particular scene I would not have otherwise imagined. For example, while doing some research for The Partisan’s Wife, the study of old maps and descriptions of New York City during the American Revolution prompted me to write a scene in which my main characters do a bit of shopping at a popular place of the time called the Oswego Market. Making this long gone place and time come alive was a  challenge. I wanted the reader to travel back there in time with Peter and Anne, experiencing the surroundings with them. I was also working within the constraints of  a few certain particulars, such as the fact that in 1777 Broadway in Manhattan ran south and north, the same as it does today.

Now that I’m working on an epic fantasy, I am faced with a different sort of “world building.” There are no resources online or in any library or history book where I can find details of a world that exists solely in my imagination. And yet, in order to bring this world to life and make it convincing, I must approach my “research” in the same way I do with a book based in an actual time and place. Because this constructed world is populated with recognizable beings—mostly human—their lives, desires, feelings, likes, dislikes, goals and obstacles must ring true to the reader in the context I’ve set down. And it must be consistent. There must be rules and constraints, which cannot be broken or overstepped. The planet rotates on its axis and revolves around a sun very much in the way our planet does. It has a moon, like ours (or if I choose, it can have two or three or more moons). Night follows day; seasons change. The people have a history, mythology and legends, whether recorded or handed down in an oral tradition. They have wants and desires, fears and comforts. Society has its customs and taboos. There are social strata in which the people live and work according their class. But all of this happens in a universe that is not quite ours, where aberrant (to us) behaviors are acceptable…even the norm.

Since I’ve chosen as this world one that is similar to ours, with a few differences, it is imperative that the dissimilarities be established right from the beginning (as Umberto Eco states in the quote at the top of the page). One difference in this universe is that something akin to magic exists. To make it real and acceptable, the source and execution of this magic must flow seamlessly within the physical and metaphysical laws I’ve created. Other differences involve the melding of cultures. For the “Lothrians,” a peaceful, learned, culturally advanced bunch, I’ve endowed them with characteristics drawn from Celtic and Native American cultures. For the “Notlunders,” a greedy, ruthless, warlike people, I’ve combined aspects of Roman and Viking culture and history. Although not Tolkien-esque “elves,” the “Milithos” or forest people are Lothrians who have evolved in an environment, which over time has changed their physical appearance and solidified their behaviors. And then there are the little “Skaddock,” who resemble primitive humans in a hunter-gatherer society. All invove research into the beliefs and nature of  these cultures.

In the quote above, Umberto Eco says that this process of world building has nothing to do with realism. Novelists by their very nature create new realities in every book they write. And readers are too smart to accept a world whose laws of nature and physics change at the author’s whim in order to make a plot device work. How the magic is called upon and brought into action depends on how believably these devices are set up in the creation of the fictional universe. How the “Milith” people changed in appearance over the centuries since their banishment to the forest calls upon the laws of evolution as we know them and is in itself an explanation for some of their extraordinary abilities. (Through use of a substance they’ve refined over centuries, they can make themselves invisible in certain conditions).

Working within the constraints of this created world and the people who inhabit it, I've established rules that define what is real and what can conceivably happen...hopefully, in a way that is not jarring or false, causing the reader to hurl the book across the room.

~*~

Following is a short excerpt from my work in progress, Sword of Names. I hope it is not only enjoyable, but presents an explanation for how a particular old wizard calls upon his magic:

On the other side of the fire pit, seated on a fallen tree trunk, his back to her, Gamba remained engrossed in his work. Moonbeams outlined his form against the smoldering embers, his closely cropped hair sparkling like a snowy crown, his bald pate shining in the silver light. Hunched over the gnarled root of the bracklenut shaft, her grandfather continued to whittle away. Save for his scraping and paring, he had hardly moved and made no sound for hours.

When the moon reached its apex, he pulled a dark cloth from his haversack. He unwrapped an object in his lap, regarded it for a moment, then held it up to the light. A multifaceted crystal the size of a toddling child’s fist flickered with a milky glow. He mumbled something in an ancient tongue and slipped the jewel into the roots of his bracklenut rod, which closed one-by-one, like fingers, around it.

She sat, hugging her knees to her chest. “Gamba,” she said quietly.

After a moment, her grandfather turned, his features masked by the night. He set down the knife and raised his staff to peer through the swath of murky light it cut through the darkness. “I thought you were asleep.”

She shielded her eyes with a hand against the unexpected brightness. “Is that a corrath?”

“I have not had a suitable staff for it since before you were born.” She sensed his smile in the soft tone of his voice.

Elthwen scrambled to her feet, and barely suppressing her eagerness, entered the pool of soft light spilling around him.

“Bracklenut…not too green, not too dry.” He let out a short, muffled laugh. “This was an auspicious find.”

She dropped beside him on the log. Enveloped by the crystal’s light, she basked in its warmth spreading through her aching bones. Like a weight, her head defied all attempts to keep it upright. She rested it on his shoulder and fixed her gaze on the stone’s radiance growing in intensity. “How does it do that?”

As he slowly rotated the staff between his palms, the crystal changed from opaque white to pink and back to white again. “I am a ghalthrach,” he said simply. “The staff is but a conduit. It connects us—the corrath and me—and the two of us to the earth. By the grace of Nirmanath, we are now one with the current of life.” The light sputtered, nearly going out. “Ach! Perhaps I should have said, ‘We soon shall be one….’ We are both old and woefully out of practice. It will take us a bit of time to…. ” Focusing full attention on his task, he rolled the staff between his hands until the stone flickered back into luminescence.

Kathy Fischer-Brown has published four historical novels with Books We Love, Ltd. To find out more about Kathy and her books, please visit her at her Books We Love author page. For updates on Sword of Names and for further information, check out her website.

Death Caps in the Beef Stroganoff by Sandy Semerad

When a film crew discovered magic mushrooms at Buckingham Palace, I remembered when I found mushrooms in my yard. They were light brown, not red and white like the hallucinogenic mushrooms popping up in the Queen’s garden. 

I chose not to eat the mushrooms I found. But what if I’d eaten them or put them in a dish that called for mushrooms? This “what if” question, led me to write the following short story:

                                          

~~~~~~

It hurts like a bullet in the chest to see Rosy, scared and fragile, on trial for her life. She looks much too thin in a grey suit, her long blonde hair pulled back in a French twist. 

I’d give my life to free her from this nightmare. So far, I’ve used every legal resource as sheriff of this county to try to help her beat this bum rap.

I cashed in my savings for her bail money. Rosy has no idea I did this. Only Father Windford knows. He’s the priest at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church.

Father Windford and his congregation have contributed also. Their show of support made the front page of The Daily Sun, where Rosy used to work as news editor.

Most everyone in the community believes she’s innocent, except the friends and family of Michael Hofstadter and Prosecutor Sammy Prescott.

“Rosy could never kill anyone and you know it,” I told Sammy.

“Love has made you blind, Sheriff,” Sammy said. “Rosemary not only poisoned her husband with mushrooms grown in her back yard, but she killed her first husband and made it look like an accident.”

“You know damn well she didn’t kill Hofstadter, nor Canter. John Canter was an alcoholic. No surprise he passed out in a Jacuzzi and drowned. This whole case is a farse. And Judge Biggs shouldn’t be allowed to sit in judgment at Rosy’s trial due to his association with Hofstadter.”

Biggs was featured in Hofstadter’s last documentary: My Fat is not who I am. His Honor weighs four hundred pounds.

I’m shaking with anger as I watch Mary Lee Hofstadter being sworn in. She's Hofstadter's daughter from his first marriage and his only offspring. Mary Lee acts like a child, but she’s almost thirty. Sammy hasn’t even opened his month to ask her a question when she blurts out, “Daddy was a loving and generous man, and she killed him.” Mary Lee stabs a finger at Rosy.

Rosy’s attorney, Darrell Lincoln, shoots up out of his chair and shouts. “Objection, your Honor. Not evidentiary.”

I’m hoping to hell the jury understands the significance of “not evidentiary.” Lincoln likes to spout ten-dollar words when a five-cent one would serve better. He has a reputation for being the best lawyer in Florida, but he’s pretentious as hell, doesn’t want anyone to call him by his first name, including his wife and mama.

Prior to taking Rosy’s case, Lincoln represented an elderly man who fell on a banana peel in a grocery store and broke his hip. A jury awarded Lincoln and his client a ten-million-dollar settlement.

 Judge Biggs hammers his gavel and yells, “Sustained.”

Sammy gives a sobbing Mary Lee a tissue. She looks like an orphan in her faded jeans and yellowing white t-shirt. Her hair is greasy and uncombed. I’d feel sorry for her if I didn’t know she’s the biggest kleptomaniac in this county.

I’m hoping the jurors are privy to Mary Lee’s background, but regardless, her accusation against Rosy can never be erased from the jury’s memory.

As Hofstadter’s only offspring, Mary Lee is in line, after Rosy, to inherit everything: the million-dollar life insurance payout and all of Hofstadter’s property and film residuals, which knowing Rosy, she would have gladly shared with Mary Lee.

After Sammy asks Mary Lee a few more questions, he gives Lincoln the floor. Lincoln approaches the witness stand, smiling sympathetically, probably thinking Mary Lee can’t help but smile back, and she does.

Lincoln runs a hand through his thick blonde hair. “Ms. Hofstadter, the night your daddy died, he and Rosemary had a luncheon at their home, is that right?”

“Yes, but I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

“Ms. Hofstadter, to make this as painless for you as possible, you need only answer yes or no.” Lincoln flashes a smile, showing off his white teeth.

Mary Lee pouts. “I did.”

Lincoln nods at Mary Lee and then faces the jury. “Those who attended the luncheon were asked to bring food or a dish, because it was a pot luck lunch, isn’t that right?”

Mary Lee glances at the judge as if he’d asked the question. “I’m not sure what kind of a thing it was.”

Lincoln walks to the jury box. “Your Honor, please instruct the witness to answer the question yes or no.”

“I’m trying, your Honor.” Mary Lee gives Biggs a wide-eyed stare. Her big, blue eyes are her best feature. She uses them to appear guileless and dumb.

“She’s trying,” Biggs says. Two members of the jury--Owen Taylor, a teacher at the high school and Faye Nell Krause, a nurse at the hospital—laugh, along with several in the courtroom.

Biggs hammers the gavel. “Try harder. Okay, Mary Lee? Repeat the question, Counsel.”

“Isn’t it true that everyone invited to the luncheon at your daddy and Rosemary’s house the day your daddy died was asked to bring a dish or something?”

“I wasn’t asked to bring anything.”

Lincoln sighs. “Your Honor, please, instruct the witness to answer the question yes or no.”

Biggs glares at Mary Lee. “Can you answer that question ‘yes’ or ‘no’?”

“I’m not sure, your honor.”

“You heard her, Counsel.” Biggs pounds the gavel. “She’s not sure. Can we move on or can you rephrase the question?”

“Yes, your Honor. Okay, Ms. Hofstadter, did you see guests bring in food to the luncheon that was held the day your daddy died?”

“I suppose so.”

“Answer yes or no, please.”

“Yes.”

“And would you agree that when guests bring a dish to a get together this is traditionally known as pot luck?”

“I guess.”

“Yes or no.”

“Okay, yes, but I don’t see…”

“And wouldn’t you also agree that someone at the luncheon, and that includes you, might have brought into the house the mushrooms that the prosecution claims killed your daddy?”

“Objection,” Sammy shouts.

“I’ll answer that your Honor,” Mary Lee says, while glaring at Rosy. “Rosemary was the one who cooked the beef stroganoff.”

Mary Lee turns around to face the jury. “Daddy was hungry. He hadn’t eaten much that day. You see, he was forced to eat small portions, because of his stomach stapling surgery. He’d lost close to a hundred pounds in just a few months.”

Lincoln leans toward Mary Lee, his white-knuckled hands gripping the sides of the witness stand. “Ms. Hofstadter, please stick to the question. Now, I’m going to try again, and I would appreciate it if you would answer yes or no.”

Mary Lee nods in agreement.

“Your daddy and Rosemary had a pot luck luncheon and guests brought in food. That we have agreed upon. Isn’t it possible that anyone attending the luncheon could have brought those mushrooms into that house?”

Mary Lee shrugs her shoulders while shaking her head, no.

“Even you, Mary Lee Hofstadter, could have brought the mushrooms into the house, which makes me wonder why you didn’t eat any of the beef stroganoff. Is it because you’ll gain financially from your daddy’s death if Rosemary is found guilty?”

Sammy stands. “Objection, your Honor.”

Lincoln points at Rosy. “Rosemary Hofstadter is a vegetarian, but you are not. So, why didn’t you eat the beef stroganoff, Mary Lee?”

Sammy hops up and down, as if he’s on a trampoline. “Objection, Counsel is badgering this young woman. He’s persecuting her, which is unconscionable. She’s not the one on trial here.”

Bigg's face turns red, almost as red as Lincoln’s tie. He hammers his gavel with such force his jowls shake. “Lincoln, one more outburst before I’ve had a chance to rule, and I’ll hold you in contempt.”

“Sorry, your honor,” Lincoln says. “I have no further questions for this witness.”

“I hate beef stroganoff,” Mary Lee says, storming off.

Next up is Michael Hofstadter’s former mistress, a budding actress who reminds me of a blonde model I’d seen in one of those Victoria’s Secret catalogues. Only this gal, Ginger Pandino, doesn’t appear to have any secrets. She’s has on a black slip that looks like a nighty. No bra.

As if on cue, Ginger Pandino dabs at her eyes and swears to tell the “whole truth and nothing but.”

Sammy walks up, looking sympathetic as if Ginger is the real widow here. I’m surprised Sammy didn’t ask Ginger to dress more conservatively. “How long have you known the deceased Michael Hofstadter?”

Ginger wipes her eyes. “We had been dating off and on for…oh…ten years.”

Sammy turns on his heels to stare at Rosy. “Are you saying you started dating him before he met and married the defendant?”

“Yes. I was in the first documentary Michael did. It was on date rape, filmed at UCLA. I was a freshman at the time.”

“Did you love Michael Hofstadter?”

“Yes,” she sobs. “Very much.”

“Did the two of you ever talk about getting married?”

“He wanted to back then, but I was only eighteen, younger than his daughter, and my folks didn’t approve. I later married a guy they approved of, but it didn’t work out.”

A large woman in front of me says, “Hussy,” loud enough to be heard.

Biggs glares in her direction and hammers his gavel. “Be quiet or remove yourself.”

Sammy continues. “So you’re saying your first marriage ended in divorce, is that right?”

“Yes, and I needed a job to support myself, so I asked Michael if he had any work for me to do.”

Sammy points to Rosy. “Was he married to the defendant at that time?”

“Yes.”

“And did Michael Hofstadter give you a job?”

“Yes, I became his assistant.”

“How would you describe your relationship with Michael Hofstadter?”

“I fought my feelings as he did, but our love was too strong, and he eventually told me he would ask his wife for a divorce.”

Rosy whispers something to Lincoln. He whispers back. Rosy shakes her head, no.

“And did Michael Hofstadter ask his wife for a divorce?”

Lincoln jumps up. “Hearsay, your Honor.”

Biggs hammers his gavel. “I’ll allow it as to what Mr. Hofstadter told this witness.”

“I’ll rephrase your honor. Ms. Pandino, did Michael Hofstadter tell you he asked his wife, the defendant, for a divorce?”

“Yes. Michael said she was furious and told him that the prenuptial she signed wasn’t worth the weeds in his garden.”

“Objection,” Lincoln shouts. “Hearsay.”

“No further questions, your Honor,” Sammy says, smiling.

Lincoln acts fidgety. His hands shake as he approaches the witness stand. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s attracted to this Barbie femme fatale. He flashes his toothy smile.

“Ms. Pandino, what if I told you that Michael Hofstadter’s wife, Rosemary, honestly believed her husband was true to her? She believed him when he told her he was intimate with only her. She believed him when he said he loved only her. And she is prepared to testify to that in this courtroom.”

Sammy stood. “Conjecture and improper questioning of this witness, your Honor.”

“Sustained.” Biggs hammers the gavel. “If the defendant is prepared to testify, then let her.”

Lincoln tries again. “Ms. Pandino, you have admitted you entered into an adulterous affair with Mr. Hofstadter, is that correct?”

“He was married and I knew it and I dated him anyway. That is true. I let my heart rule my head, but I eventually told Michael if he loved me the way I loved him, he should get a divorce, and until Michael actually took that step, I told him I wasn’t going to see him anymore. So, I broke it off until the night Michael assured me he had asked his wife for a divorce.”

“How many months did you have an affair with Michael Hofstadter before you broke it off?”

Ginger sighs and closes her eyes. “I don’t know. As I said, I dated him way back when I was at UCLA.”

“Ms. Pandino, I need you to tell this court how many months you had an affair with Michael Hofstadter while he was married to his wife, Rosemary?”

“Six months maybe.”

“It took you six months to realize you were doing the wrong thing by entering into an adulterous affair with a married man, six months before you, all of a sudden, decided to break off your relationship with him unless he got a divorce. Come now, Ms. Pandino, do you expect this court to believe you?”

Sammy raises his arms above his head like a winning fighter. “Objection, your Honor. Counsel is badgering the witness. She has already testified as to her relationship with the victim, Michael Hoftstader.”

Biggs hammers the gavel. “Sustained, move on, Lincoln. If you don’t have anything new to offer, please conclude with this witness.”

“One last question, your Honor. Ms. Pandino, did you actually hear Michael Hofstadter ask his wife Rosemary for a divorce?”

“No, Mr. Lincoln, but he recounted the conversation to me, and knowing him as well as I did, I knew he was telling me the truth.”

“So, what you’re saying is, Michael Hofstadter told you he asked his wife for a divorce. You didn’t actually hear him ask her, and he didn’t actually swear on a Bible that he asked his wife for a divorce, isn’t that right?”

Sammy huffs like a quack less duck. “Objection, your Honor, the defendant has already answered that question.”

Biggs hammers his gavel. “Sustained.”

Lincoln props his hands on his hips. “Who knows? Maybe you did believe Michael Hofstadter was telling you the truth, Ms. Pandino. His wife Rosemary certainly believed him when he told her he was faithful to her.”

Sammy stood and approached the bench. “Ojection and should be stricken from the record.”

“Sustained.” Biggs hammers the gavel. “Have you finished with this witness, Counsel.”

“Yes, your Honor.”

All eyes seem to follow Ginger as she steps down and sashays up the aisle and out through the double doors behind me.

“Prosecution rests,” Sammy says.

Biggs hammers his gavel, and we break for lunch.

When Rosy’s trial resumes, Lincoln calls Dr. Jason Franken to the stand.

Franken is a medical doctor, a horticulturist and expert witness. His last case involved a six-year-old boy who almost died from eating “Amanita Phalloides mushrooms also known as Death Caps,” he says.

Lincoln puts a photo of Death Caps on an easel for the jury to see. To my eyes, they look like normal mushrooms, except they have white ridges on their undersides.

“One mushroom can contain enough poison to kill an adult,” Franken says. “And cooking them doesn’t neutralize the toxins.”

Lincoln offers a zip bag filled with these mushrooms into exhibition for the jury to examine. “Would you say, Dr. Franken, that someone could easily mistake these Death Cap mushrooms with those purchased in a grocery store?”

“Yes.”

“In your experience, have other adults made this mistake?”

“Yes.”

“How many adults would you say have mistaken these poisonous mushrooms from eatable ones?”

“There’s really no way of accurately estimating how many deaths and accidental poisonings occur each year from eating these things. Often the symptoms mimic the flu.”

On cross examination, Sammy tries to confuse the expert witness, but Dr. Franken appears unflappable.

After Franken steps down, Lincoln calls Towsend Wallace, the owner of Towsend’s Garden Spot. Towsend has transformed many a brown thumb into a green one with his guidance and his own brand of potting soil. More importantly, Michael Hofstadter was one of Towsend’s customers.

Lincoln asks Towsend about Hofstadter’s love of gardening.

“Michael used to say, ‘Getting my hands in dirt is therapy,’” Towsend testifies.

“Did Rosemary Hofstadter share her husband’s gift of gardening?”

“No, Rosy never seemed interested. Michael once joked she didn’t know a tomato plant from a corn stalk.”

Lincoln smiles and turns Towsend over to Sammy, who asks only one question. “With your vast knowledge of plants, wouldn’t you agree most intelligent adults would be afraid to eat a wild mushroom from their yard?”

“I eat wild mushrooms all the time,” Towsend says. “But I know the difference between one that is good for me and one that might kill me.”

As soon as Towsend leaves the witness stand, Lincoln calls Rosy’s daughter Candy to testify. Candy is Rosy’s daughter from her first marriage to John Canter. Candy was supposed to arrive earlier, but she was in the middle of her college finals.

“Thank God I made it,” she whispers to me on her way to being sworn in. Candy is wearing a simple black dress, no makeup on her face. She could be Rosy’s twin. Today she looks more fragile than her mother, if that’s possible.

As she is being sworn in, I zone out and daydream about the day I first met Rosy. I’d stopped in to say hello to Bob Messer. Bob and his wife Gladys own a dry cleaners and repair shop.

Rosy rushed in. The heel of her shoe had popped off. She handed Bob both pieces of it. The shoe looked like a glass slipper.

“I should be able to glue it and screw it,” Bob said.

“You want to screw my shoe?” Rosy asks.

To make matters worse, Gladys said, “I’m afraid you won’t be able to walk after he screws it.”

I snap back to the courtroom scene when I hear Candy sobbing. “Mother is the kindest, sweetest woman in the whole world, everyone who knows her, loves her. She wouldn’t kill a fly.” She turns to the jury. “Please, stop this persecution of my mother.”

I cringe when it's Sammy's turn to cross examine. “My condolences for the loss of your step father Candy," Sammy says. "I know you’ve suffered a great deal in your young life. You lost your own father to a tragic unexplained accident, didn’t you? Was your father’s death happenstance or something more sinister?”

Lincoln jumps up. “Objection, irrelevant and cruel, your Honor.”

Biggs hammers the gavel. “Sustained.”

“I’ll withdraw the question.”

I exhale a relieved sign when Sammy finally releases Candy. Before she leaves the courtroom, she whispers to me, "I wish I could stay. But I have to hurry back and take another test."

 Andrea Quiller, Rosy’s next-door neighbor, is called to the stand. Andrea plays the piano at Saint Paul’s Episcopal. She testifies about the luncheon at the Hofstadter home the day in question.

“There must have been at least fifty guests. Most everybody brought a dish or something. I remember thinking Michael didn’t look well. Rosy told me she thought he was losing weight too fast. She was worried about his health after he had that stomach surgery.”

On cross, Sammy asks, “Did you actually see any of the guests at the party bring in Death Cap mushrooms?”

“No, but I arrived at Rosy and Michael’s late. I brought a bean casserole.”

“Ms. Quiller, have you ever been to a pot luck lunch or supper where one of the guests brought in strange-looking mushrooms?”

“I can’t say that I have.”

“Ms. Quiller, did Rosemary Hofstadter tell you her husband, Michael Hofstadter abused her and she was miserable in that relationship?”

Andrea bites her bottom lip, but doesn’t respond.

“Ms. Quiller, do I need to repeat the question?”

Again, she hesitates and glances at Rosy. “Rosy once said Michael slapped her when he was drunk, but I think she set him straight after that.”

“What do you mean by ‘set him straight’?”

Andrea bites her lip again and turned toward the jury. “Rosy said she threatened to leave Michael if he ever hit her a second time.”

“Was Rosemary Hofstadter unhappy in her marriage?”

“No more than any of us.”

The courtroom erupts in laughter.

Biggs hammers the gavel. “Silence.”

After Andrea steps down from the stand, Lincoln calls Rosy to be sworn in. My heart hammers faster than a woodpecker in a hurry.

Tears stream down her lovely face as she clutches the oak banister in front of the witness chair. Lincoln puts his hands over hers in a touching display of compassion. “Rosemary, did you intentionally hurt Michael Hofstadter?”

“No, no, no.” Rosy swipes her tears with the backs of her hands. “I almost can’t live with myself knowing I might have cooked something for him that could have….” Rosy’s body convulses in sobs.

Lincoln hands her a box of Kleenex and says, “Do you need to take a break, Rosemary.”

Rosy shakes her head, no.

Lincoln continues. “Rosemary, I know this is difficult for you, but I need to ask you how you came to prepare the beef Stroganoff with those mushrooms that the prosecution alleges killed your husband.”

“Michael loved Beef Stroganoff. He’d been craving it. He actually stopped and picked up the sirloin the day before. I had not fixed Beef Stroganoff for him in, oh, I can’t remember when. It had been a long time. I had to refer to an old cookbook and check to see if I had all of the ingredients. I didn’t know if I had mushrooms or not, and then I happened to see them on the counter in a plastic grocery bag.”

“What time was this?”

“About six-thirty, seven.”

“Did the mushrooms look strange to you?”

“No.”

“Tell us what happened after you fixed the Stroganoff.”

Rosy covers her mouth with her trembling hands and looks down at the floor, as if gathering her thoughts. “After the luncheon, Michael went up to his study to catch up on work. I didn’t want to disturb him by calling him downstairs to eat. So, I took him a plate.”

“Did you eat with your husband while he ate?”

“I don’t eat meat, but we did have a glass of merlot together. And afterwards, I went downstairs to clean up the mess from our luncheon.”

“Did your husband complain about being sick after he ate the Stroganoff?”

“After I cleaned up the kitchen, I went back upstairs. I had a terrible headache and wanted to go to bed. I called out to Michael. He didn’t answer, but I heard the commode flush in the bathroom next to his study. The bathroom door was closed. So I knocked on the door and told him I was going to bed. I asked him if he was okay. He said he didn’t feel well. He thought he might have a bug. I asked him if he wanted me to call the doctor. He said no. I asked him if I could do anything or get him anything. He said no.”

Rosy breaks into sobs again and Lincoln waits a moment. When Rosy regains her composure, he asks, “And can you tell us what else you remember?”

“I took two Excedrin PM as I sometimes do when I have a headache and can’t sleep. I didn’t wake up until seven the next morning.”

“Where was your husband then?”

“He wasn’t in bed with me, and I thought maybe he’d fallen asleep in his lounger. When he’s working on a project at home, he often falls asleep in his study in the lounge chair.” Rosy covers her face with her hands. “But I didn’t find him in the lounger. I found him on the bathroom floor. His body felt like stone. I immediately called 911."

The faces of the jurors look sad, as if afflicted with grief. Juror Faye Nell Krause is wiping her tears.

In an effort to appear compassionate, Sammy whispers his first question to Rosy. “Isn’t it true, Rosemary, that you were angry with you husband, Michael Hofstadter? And who could blame you? He asked you for a divorce after you were forced to put up with his unacceptable behavior?”

Rosy's baby blues, swollen from crying, widen. “Michael never asked me for a divorce.”

“Do you expect this court to believe that you did not know or suspect your husband was having an affair?”

Rosy wipes her eyes. “I wanted to believe he was true to me, and I guess I believed what I wanted to believe.”

“What about those strange looking mushrooms? Do you expect this court to believe that an intelligent woman, such as yourself, would not know, or at least suspect, those Death Caps were poisonous and profoundly lethal, and especially to someone like your husband who'd had stomach surgery?”

“If I had known I never would have given them to Michael or to anyone.” Rosy’s body trembles, and she starts sobbing again.

I ball up my fists. They’re itching to punch Sammy.

To keep from hitting him, I walk outside. The cool air feels good. I take deep breaths and try to meditate. I’m out longer than I intended. By the time I make it back inside, the summations and charges to the jury have concluded.

I expect a long and tortuous wait for a judgment, but in forty-five minutes, we get word there’s a verdict. Rosy is trembling as she stands to receive it.

The bailiff hands Judge Biggs the paper with Rosy’s fate. Biggs shows no expression as he glances at it and hands the verdict to foreman Owen Taylor to read aloud.

“Not guilty on all counts,” Owen announces.

The courtroom erupts in cheers. One woman yells, "Oh, my God."

I run over, grab Rosy and swing her around.

She says, "Don't squeeze me to death, Phil," and laughs.

Lincoln makes a victory sign with his fingers.

Rosy says she needs to go to the Ladies room. Lincoln and I wait for her.

After a few moments, she walks out, looking renewed and happy. She’s put on fresh pink lipstick and her eyes look clearer.  

“The media circus is waiting,” she says. “Let get this over with.”

As we walk out to face the mob of flashing cameras and reporters, Rosy’s cell phone rings. She grabs the phone from her purse. Caller I.D. says, “Candy.”

"Hi Sweetie, the jury found me innocent," Rosy answers. "I know...but right now I have to feed the media."

A cameraman bumps Rosy. The cell phone flies from her hand. I catch it before it hits the concrete steps.

I hear Candy, still talking on the other end. Obviously, she’s unaware her Mom dropped the phone.

“I’m glad you killed that son of a bitch, Mama,” Candy says.

Sandy Semerad has worked as a newspaper reporter, broadcaster, columnist and editor, mostly in Atlanta, where she lived for many years. Since moving to Florida, she has written three novels, SEX, LOVE, AND MURDER (previously titled MARDI GRAVESTONE), HURRICANE HOUSE and her latest, A MESSAGE IN THE ROSES--loosely based on a murder trial she covered as a reporter. All of Sandy’s books have received rave reviews. Alabama born, she now lives in Santa Rosa Beach with husband Larry, their spoiled Shih Tzu P-Nut and wayward cat Miss Kitty. Sandy has two daughters and a granddaughter. 

To find out more, visit her website: www.sandysemerad.com and blog: 

http://sandysemerad.com/blog/

Facebook fan page link: https://www.facebook.com/SandySemerad