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
