Antitrust: Taking on Monopoly Power from the Gilded Age to the Digital Age. Amy Klobuchar, author. (Knopf, 2021, ISBN 978-0-525-65489-6) Monopolies are just one tool of many America’s fascist plutocracy employs to enrich itself at the cost of the rest of us. Here the author, a prominent senator, tells the story of monopolies and trust-busting in America (or the lack thereof). Often centering things on her home state of Minnesota or America’s Midwest, she follows monopolies from colonial times to the present. Traditionally we don’t call US monopolists fascists, but they always have been deserving of that moniker, even though the word wasn’t part of the world’s lexicon until just before World War II.

Fascism (the -ism doesn’t make it an ideology, of course, just like authoritarianism isn’t an ideology) has plagued human societies since pre-Roman times; and fascists, often hiding their autocratic leanings in populism, have been the clubs plutocracies and oligarchies wield to maintain their power. The US is no exception. It is in a downward spiral into the cesspool of fascism like the one that consumed 1930s Germany. Super-strong and abusive monopolies are only the visible wounds fascist plutocrats inflict.

I won’t split semantical hairs in this review of Senator Klobuchar’s tome. It doesn’t mention fascism per se, but that’s what she describes—a sordid piece of American history involving abuses perpetrated by America’s plutocracy…and it continues today. And this history is honest and well-written otherwise, so why should I complain?

The Devil’s in the details, of course. The senator earns her credentials as an historian, but what about her treatment of today’s monopolistic problems, exacerbated now by the tech and pharmaceutical industries as well as other mega-multinational corporations, where America and the world marches rapidly toward what I imagined in book one of my Chaos Chronicles Trilogy Collection? This threatens to destroy the world as we know it. The senator does a fine job, though, as she analyzes today’s challenges and possible solutions in the last two chapters before the conclusion,. I was happy to see that she even considered Amazon’s monopolistic policies, including their nefarious influence on the publishing industry. Very few authors can make a living writing now, bookstores are closing, and Amazon is mostly responsible for this bad situation, even competing with traditional publishers, leading to takeovers and the destruction of small presses.

But there’s more. Big Pharma and Big Tech are shown to be worse than most people think; they’re the new monopolistic ogres on the block. Their CEOs generally are scurrilous plutocrats. That movie about how Zuckerberg took over Facebook is fact, not fiction. The Sackler family (Purdue Pharma) are essentially mass murderers. Etc. Etc. And today these are the people who are giving us politicians like Trump, McConnell, McCarthy, Gaetz, Jordan, and others who are willing to do the fascist plutocrats’ bidding. (The senator mostly only mentions the companies, not their CEOs’ names, but we all know their names.) This is powerful writing as the senator spins her yarn about the fall of the American empire.

There are two flaws that caught my eye here, though: First, there’s very little mention of the military-industrial complex. It’s now controlled by only a few companies, and it is probably partially responsible for many of the wars America has fought since World War II. (Recall that after that war Eisenhower warned about how it might become all-powerful and distort our politics. Military might is a fascist favorite, as exhibited by Trump’s desire for a military parade like the one he saw in France. The fascist plutocrats of the military-industrial complex are undoubtedly the most dangerous.)

The second flaw is that the senator is a bit naive. She’s optimistic about the future. I’m not. I think we’ve gone beyond a tipping point for the American experiment, and she describes one of the reasons. Maybe she’s right to be optimistic. I sure hope so.

***

Comments are always welcome.

“The Last Humans” series. I wrote the first novel in this series, The Last Humans, before the real Covid pandemic. The plague here is bioengineered by an American enemy and is delivered to the West Coast of the US via missile. But we all know from the experiences with those California wildfires that small particles, here the virus, can be carried across the US and to the rest of the world by prevailing winds. Penny Castro, forensic diver for the LA County Sheriff’s department, dives to recover a corpse and emerges to find apocalyptic desolation. The first novel is her story of survival. The second, The Last Humans: A New Dawn, is the story of a US-sponsored revenge mission that goes terribly wrong for Penny. (Fair warning: The idiotic Amazon bots—or the idiots who program them?—confused these two novels, so I’d recommend buying the two books elsewhere. Barnes & Noble, for example, where the links take you, kept them straight. The first novel was a bestseller from Black Opal Books at B&N for a bit, in fact.)

Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!

[Note from Steve: Double feature today! This article is followed by a book review.]

Movies, streaming videos, computer games—these are three audiovisual media, emphasis on the visual, to which people are addicted. Authors are told to show not tell (more terrible advice from writing gurus!), but “showing” isn’t really possible in novels, is it? Their media reduces to words on the written page; there’s nothing audiovisual about that.

But avid readers know they can create their own visuals from those words alone if an author gives them a minimalist nudge. That’s all it takes to draw a reader into the creative process. People can choose the more passive visual entertainment and eschew participation in the creative process, but that choice is a sad one. They will never be able to enjoy that experience of using an author’s words to create their own personal images of what’s going on. Every reader’s images will be different. True, their creation is guided by the words, but that’s all the author should be: A guide.

Modesty aside, I’ll choose two examples from my own oeuvre to illustrate the point.

At the beginning of Goin’ the Extra Mile, the reader is right there with Mary Jo Melendez (written in first person, by the way) as she hops atop a speeding car to stop the kidnapping of her two adopted children. That’s action-in-words designed to hook readers, telling all readers that the novel is going to be a thrill ride.

The second example shows the advantage of words over settings. While you might see the approach to Bogotá, Colombia from the air in streaming video or a movie, brought to you at high cost (the film company will want to recover the millions spent in production costs), you can enjoy this experience in Soldiers of God for less than the cost of a MacDonald’s meal. And I’d never expect that view in Hollywood schlock because they paint Colombia as a drug-infested land of terrorists, which it isn’t, of course. Lots of good people live there, and it’s a beautiful land, whether portrayed in visuals or words, but the latter must be done properly.

So the answer to the title’s question is simple: Yes! Readers know that answer well. After all, the best movie scripts come from novels. Writers of original screenplays rarely have the patience to paint pictures with words because they’re already seeing the cameras rolling.

True, some authors can overdo it, which is why I emphasize minimalist writing. An author must provide the words that lead readers to create their own images, but that leading must be just enough that readers don’t feel constrained by the words. That’s where the art of writing lies.

***

Comments are always welcome.

“The Last Humans” series. I wrote the first novel in this series, The Last Humans, before the real Covid pandemic. The plague here is bioengineered by an American enemy and is delivered to the West Coast of the US via missile. But we all know from the experiences with those California wildfires that small particles, here the virus, can be carried across the US and to the rest of the world by prevailing winds. Penny Castro, forensic diver for the LA County Sheriff’s department, dives to recover a corpse and emerges to find apocalyptic desolation. The first novel is her story of survival. The second, The Last Humans: A New Dawn, is the story of a US-sponsored revenge mission that goes terribly wrong for Penny. (Fair warning: The idiotic Amazon bots—or the idiots who program them?—confused these two novels, so I’d recommend buying the two books elsewhere. Barnes & Noble, for example, where the links take you, kept them straight. The first novel was a bestseller from Black Opal Books at B&N for a bit, in fact.)

Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!

[As a native son of the great state of California, I can emphasize with Irwin Pound’s sentiments found in this short novella (or long short story?). My distance from my current home in Montclair to California is farther than his distance from London to the Lake District, but the yearning is probably just as strong. I hope you enjoy this story, another British-style mystery, which concludes today. (For previous chapters, see the “Friday Fiction” archive.)]

The Prodigal Son

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Ten

The next morning at the station, Robert’s team began casting a wider net. Sara Bixby was the primary person-of-interest now—not yet a suspect, but someone who might be able to offer a lot of answers to their questions. Because Robert and company had it covered, Irwin called in some favors in Southampton. He had been on a case there once and become friends with a DCI and a few other plods at that shipping and passenger port.

“We can make it a formal request from the coppers up there, mate,” Rory McAdams told him. The DCI’s brogue showed his work in  southern England was farther from his homeland than Irwin’s had been in London.

“Has to be unofficial. I’m here as a guest, you know. Do you have someone who could check the victim’s finances on the sly?”

“Thinking that your missing woman felt that her daddy dearest was after her inheritance, are you?”

“That’s always a possibility. People with money, want more. And, just because he had money, doesn’t mean he didn’t want more, although maybe he had some bad habits too—gambling, drugs, you name it. Maybe someone could check that out too?”

“I have a hotshot DS who’s closing a case and will have a bit of time to kill while she waits for her promotion to DI. She’s like a bloodhound, she is. Brother is too. We have to watch out for these young plods, Irwin, my friend.”

He laughed. “That might be how Mills feels about me.”

“Say hi to that old fellow. He’s one of the good ones.”

“I know.” Irwin saw the shadow on his borrowed desk. He looked up to see Toby. “Be right with you, lad.” The fellow took a chair and waited. After Irwin rang off, he said, “Okay, what can I do for you?”

“We have a CCTV record of her at a rest stop on A74.”

“Love those cameras. Sounds like she’s heading for Glasgow. Did you check other stops farther along that route?”

“In the process of, sir. Wondered if you knew if she had anyone up there who’d hide her.”

“If she’s guilty, it’s to hide; if not, maybe visiting a relative or friend and oblivious with respect to our search. Let me check with her aunt.”

Eleanor Bixby picked up on the third ring. “My second cousin Angus is up that way. Don’t know of anyone else from the family she might visit—not many left—but she was always secretive about her trysts with questionable men. It could be anyone. Angus is a publican; not the pub’s owner, but he runs the place. The Lonely Stag it’s called, a bit north of the city.”

“Are your people Scotch?”

“Heavens no. We’re ex-pat Londoners, Cockneys to be precise. James was always looking even farther south, but most of us here in Cumbria look north, if they’re not Vikings gazing across the North Sea.”

“I see. Thanks for the information.”

Irwin rang off and went to talk to Robert.

***

“I know a plod up in Glasgow,” Robert said. “He owes me a favor. I’ll call him. Can you call that damn lawyer and ask him point blank if this Angus is in the will. I can’t think of any other reason for Sara to go up there, unless the publican is her new surrogate father.”

“I’ll do that. I also have some feelers in to a friend in the Southampton area. What would we do without them?”

“If you do this work long enough, you come to depend on friends and a network of questionable blokes who’re willing to grass on anyone to increase their dosh. That’s how you play the game.”

Irwin smiled, nodded, and returned to the common area.

Only moments after he sat, he received a call from Rory.

“Told you that our DS is gung-ho. Your victim was bleeding money. His company forced him to get help with his problem with drugs, and he owed money for bad bets at the race track. They’ve removed him from the payroll now, of course.”

“So he wouldn’t want his daughter to make life difficult for him in probate. He might even have been thinking of going after the aunt’s share too. Thanks. Give your DS a peck on the cheek for me.”

“That would get me a good slap or two. We’re even now, mate.”

“I wasn’t keeping score.”

“I was.” Irwin went silent. “You there? Just kidding, old stick. Good luck with this one.”

Irwin called the barrister. The combative receptionist told him he had gone to an emergency meeting in Glasgow. He went to talk to Robert.

***

“Um, Sara’s headed to Glasgow, Leam’s headed there. Think that’s a coincidence?”

Irwin shook his head. “I think your friend there better send someone to check on Angus. I suspect he’s in the will too.”

“You’re thinking we have it all wrong? That she’s conspired with the barrister to take all the mother’s money. Maybe the story about her making a nuisance of herself at the law office was just a lie.”

Irwin now nodded. “Something like that. Or maybe Eleanor’s cut is miniscule, and Sara is still fond of her aunt, even though she really doesn’t want her to have all the money. The aunt lives comfortably.”

“I’ll make the call to my friend. You try to call this Angus.”

“We’d better warn Eleanor too.”

“Do that after warning Angus.”

Irwin was getting a lot of exercise with the back-and-forth between Robert’s office and the common area. Once there, he called Toby over and asked him to find Angus’s contact information. He then called Eleanor.

“Eleanor, you might be in danger, so I wanted to give you a heads up. Do not let Sara or the barrister into your house if either appears.”

“What’s going on? Did you find Sara?”

“In a way. She’s heading for Glasgow now. So is Mr. Leam. I need to ring off and warn Angus.”

“I don’t believe this! Sara’s a hellion, but she’s not a murderer! You plods must be thinking she killed her father.”

“It’s a possibility. We have to sort this out, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. I’m going to send two constables out to stay with you until we do sort it. Have them show their warrant cards, of course.”

“I guess I’d better get the tea and cakes ready.”

Irwin had just disconnected when Toby handed him a note with the publican’s contact information.

***

“Lonely Stag. This is Angus.”

“Good I caught you, Mr. Bixby,” Irwin said. He explained that he was an inspector from Scotland Yard. “You might have some visitors, hopefully in this order: Some constables from Police Scotland to protect you, and Sara and Mark Leam, who we think mean to do you harm.”

“Are you batty? Sara’s a distant relative. She and that barrister friend are doing a holiday getaway to say hi to Nessie. They’re stopping in to say hello. I had their call just before yours. Figured I’d give them some pints and a few sandwiches when they arrive. I’m only here ’cause I’m already on the job, making ready for late afternoon and evening festivities.”

“Do you happen to know if you’re in Janet’s will?”

Angus thought a moment. “Hell if I know. Years ago Janet told me she was splitting everything between Eleanor, Sara, and me, with that lout of a father forced to be Sara’s conservator. Heard she died but heard nothing about no will, so I assumed she changed it.”

“Apparently not. It’s possible that Sara wants it all for her and her barrister friend.”

“That sounds almost like slander, mate. Do you have evidence for that?”

“For now, it’s a theory, but it’s better to be safe. Ask to see the constables’ warrant cards if they arrive first. In any case, if Sara and that lawyer show up, be careful.”

“Okay. Just to be complete, give me your full name, warrant card number, and location.” When Irwin gave him the latter, Angus said, “A Yard DI and you’re in that poor excuse of a police substation in Cumbria? Why’s that?”

“Cumbria is where James Trent was murdered.”

There was a silence for a moment. Then: “I see. Damn. Okay, I’ll be careful.”

Chapter Eleven

Sara Bixby had hated her father, so she felt no loss. He had walked out on her mother when she was a baby. Of course, he’d come back when he needed something from her. It wasn’t good enough for him that her mother was dead and could do him no harm. He wanted to prove paternity to get Sara’s inheritance too? Sod that!

All her life her mum and she’d struggled while that fat cat got rich. The rich want to get richer, even at the expense of their progeny. Of course, she didn’t know how rich James Trent actually was, but VP in a shipping company? Her mum had ended up well off too, but that was besides the point.

She’d learned he was a twitcher. Maybe someone else had known that? What better way to draw him up the mountain where there’d be a fatal accident! She’d stared at the headlines. There was a witness, some plonker named Irwin Pound. Maybe that prat had sorted things. Otherwise, the plods might try to pin the murder on her.

She’d met Mark at the second rest stop. Once she made a deal with the attendant to park her car there, they continued on to Glasgow. They both thought a good holiday north of the border would relax them a bit before the probate battles began. Why is Eleanor being such a hard ass? And who killed her father? All of this was so confusing. She was lucky that Mark was good at calming her down.

She loved Eleanor who, in many ways, had been more of a mother to her than her own mum. The latter had become distant over time, concentrating more and more on her business interests. Sara thought all that stress might have given her cancer, but maybe that wasn’t medically sound? In any case, it hadn’t helped after she was diagnosed to have that stress added to that of dealing with the Big C.

“You’re quiet.”

“Just thinking. You met that fellow Irwin Pound, right?”

“Forget about that. He’s a copper too. You’d think he’d be the best witness the plods ever could have, but I guess he couldn’t identify your father’s killer. I blew them off. None of this is any business of theirs. We’re almost there, by the way.”

“Thank God. I could use a pint.”

***

Sara greeted Angus with a hug; Mark shook the uncle’s hand.

“Not much action here right now,” he said. He nodded towards the two at the table. “Couple of plods there wasting the taxpayers’ money, that’s all. A few pints to start?”

They nodded, and Angus joined them.

“Is this about Janet’s will?” Angus said.

Mark eyed Sara but then smiled at Angus. “Not really. I am handling that probate case, which will take forever, I dare say, but no, we’re just on a holiday together. Nessie beckons. We needed a break from all the Cumbrian intrigue.”

“I see. So Janet never wrote a new will?”

“Same one’s been in effect since just after Pops left,” Sara said. “She never had time. Eleanor basically raised me. You know that.”

“Good old Eleanor. She’s a strange one, but I guess she’s good-hearted.” Angus glanced at the rozzers. “I think she’d have killed James if she ever saw him again.”

“Not auntie,” Sara said. “I know she didn’t like pappy. Told my mum so before she married him, my mum would say. Her only failing was being a bit strict with me. Wanted to screen every man I was interested in.” She clasped Mark’s hand. “I had to get away. She didn’t like lawyers either.”

“Aye, but we can still toast her,” Angus said, raising his mug.

As if that were a cue, Eleanor Bixby entered the bar. The constables sent by Robert’s friend moved towards her, but she had a shotgun. She took out both of them and then reloaded, pointing the gun towards the table.

“You’ve made it so easy for me, Sara.”

***

Bobby MacGregor had decided to visit The Lonely Stag on his way home to see how his constables were doing. He figured Mills had gone down a cul de sac on this one. He’d have a few pints with the boys, laugh about it, and maybe call his old friend to give him a bit of lip. But he saw the woman with the shotgun from the window as he came around from the car park.

Mills was nae wrong. Trouble’s a-brewin’. Then Bobby saw his two constables bleedin’ from all over their bodies. Bollocks!

His thoughts went into overdrive. He knew Angus well. Could he catch his eye? Between the two of them, maybe they could disarm the old hag. That assumed the constables had been caught by surprise. Angus and he needed to create one for the old witch.

He waved both hands. Angus saw him through the window. He pointed to the door. Angus nodded.

Bobby burst through the door yelling, “The dart master’s here!”

Eleanor tried to swing around. It was Mark Leam who smacked the shotgun upwards, spoiling her aim. Then Angus tackled her just like in his old rugby days.

Sara broke down; Mark tried to comfort her. Bobby called his station for backup, pathologist, and SOCOs, while Angus kept his cousin pinned down.

Chapter Twelve

Irwin was allowed to be an observer at the interrogation a day later when the extradition process with Police Scotland was complete. They had everyone but Eleanor Bixby’s statement on record by then, thanks to Bobby MacGregor. The four others would be witnesses at the trial, of course. So would Irwin.

Bobby hadn’t wanted to interrogate Eleanor. Irwin couldn’t blame him. The Scot had the terrible task of telling the two constables’ families about their loved ones’ demise. That was more motivation for Robert Mills to make sure Eleanor would spend the rest of her life in prison. He scowled at her lawyer, a man he normally respected but considered an enemy at the moment.

Eleanor had confessed nothing. Her short time in jail there and the trip south might have changed her mind about talking. She sat with head tilted down toward the scarred table top. Robert and Tim faced her. Irwin sat in the corner, deciding to say nothing unless asked.

“Eleanor, you can help your situation if you talk,” Robert said after informing her of her rights yet again and stating names of those present for the taping. “We know you had your reasons for committing these crimes. If you admit to them and explain them, it will be in the record. Otherwise, you will receive the full punishment for them that the Crown provides.”

She glanced at her lawyer. He shrugged. He’s probably thinking this was a waste of time. With five witnesses against her for three murders and two or three attempted ones, he probably thinks hers is a lost case, Irwin thought.

“Please be more specific,” she said to Robert.

“I can’t be,” he said. “It’s not my decision. It’s the Crown Court’s. But in cases like this, they consider all pertinent information.”

She nodded and began a tale of woe filled with hate and frustration. She’d killed James. She’d been wondering how to do that ever since she’d learned what was in Janet’s will, a three-way split between her, Angus, and Sara, the latter via the conservatorship. It had enraged her that her sister preferred James to her for taking care of her daughter. Eleanor had taken care of Janet’s brat for many years, after all. She’d then went on to conclude she deserved it all.

James had set things in motion. She knew the lout was only interested in Sara insofar as he could drain all of Sara’s assets. He’d even asked Eleanor to help him ensure that the probate went his way. After thinking about it, she contacted him, impersonating Sara, and lured him to that ledge where she revealed herself and killed him.

The next part of the plan was to find a way to kill Sara and Angus. She’d learned about Sara and Mark’s little holiday in Scotland and suggested they visit Angus and say hi. Her niece had always liked the old publican, perhaps because he was a kindred spirit. Mark Leam would have just been collateral damage in the old woman’s plot.

At the end, Eleanor broke down, shedding tears of rage. Irwin knew he was observing extreme mental illness. That might be Eleanor’s best defense. She needed a better lawyer to pull that off. Would it be out of place for me to suggest that to Sara, now sole heir of her mother’s estate, to provide such a barrister?

***

“So…did you make that suggestion to Sara?” Devon said, putting her glass of wine down and smiling at Irwin, her smile enigmatic as if she’d discovered a secret.

“And she will act upon it. She loves her aunt despite everything that happened. Believes Eleanor needs a good psychiatrist as well and not necessarily time in jail. We agreed the latter would only make her worse right now. Who knows what the Crown Court decides and whether that same mental help will put her in jail after all when she’s declared sane.”

“Yes, if she gets well, they might still put her in jail. You’ve done your best.” She patted his hand. “And I think it’s typical of you. We both care. How is Sara, by the way?”

“Still stunned a bit. She had no idea all this was going on, apparently. I hope that top barrister won’t think hiring him is a guilt trip because she did. I told her to blame me in that case. Mark is good for her, I suppose. He might be a slimy lout, but if anyone can bring her out of her funk, he can. That funk occurs a lot when someone tries to kill you, of course, especially when it’s someone you love. It has to create doubts about whether that person really loved you at all.”

Irwin eyed her as she took another sip of wine, her eyes over the rim of the glass twinkling at him. “I’m going to be a bit bold and make a suggestion for dessert,” he said.

“We don’t have dessert menus yet. You can’t have been here before. This place only opened three years ago.”

“I was thinking of dessert at your place. The amorous kind.” He smiled. “Isn’t your mum at your aunt and uncle’s. Up to you.”

“That’s a good suggestion. We’ll see where my mind’s at after dinner.”

Her enigmatic smile gave him some hope.

***

A month later, Irwin stepped off the train and saw Robert Mills waiting for him. “Welcome back. Come along with me. That real estate lady is waiting for you.”

As they drove to the new development not far from the station, Irwin wondered how to begin a conversation.

“I suppose you wouldn’t have done it,” he finally said.

“Done what? Buy a condo unit when you might need a house down the line. It’s always a good investment. In the worst case, you could pay it off just by renting it out to tourists one or two weeks at a time when they come north to play in the Lake District. It’s a lot cheaper for them than paying for an inn or a hotel, or the Cotswolds, for that matter.”

“Nice speech. I meant pulling up stakes in London to take a lower position here.”

“Are you blaming me for that. Harry will be retiring in eight months. That’s a DI position opening up. Our DCI likes you, lad. And with your background, you’re way ahead of any other candidate. Assumes you can stand working with me for eight months, of course.”

“Did you give Tim my best?”

“An even exchange from his point of view, but I think he’ll get tired of London. Like you, there’s too much of Cumbria in that boy. That’s it, isn’t it?”

“Most of it. I want to see if my relationship with Devon blossoms a bit.”

“Take that slow. You both have tough jobs. In a sense, that’s good. Couples who see too much of each other can get on each other’s nerves.”

Irwin smiled. “But the prodigal son still needs to return home, no matter what happens.”

***

Comments are always welcome.

Two more “Esther Brookstone” novels. Did you miss them? Maybe you thought Esther’s adventures ended with the story of her honeymoon with Bastiann, Death on the Danube? No, there are more adventures involving crimes back in merry old England after the couple returns home. In #4, Palettes, Patriots, and Prats, they befriend an American artist, only to find there’s a lot more to her troubles than expected. In #5, Leonardo and the Quantum Code, everyone wants to steal new algorithms for quantum computers based on ideas of Leonardo Da Vinci. If you love the idea of 21^st versions of Miss Marple (Esther) and Hercule Poirot (Bastiann), don’t miss any of the books in this series.

Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!

[Note from Steve: If you’ve downloaded “Mayhem, Murder, and Music,” the free collection of short crime fiction—see the “Free Stuff & Contests” web page if you haven’t—you know that music often inspires me. It’s always been part of my life. I even attempted once to write a Broadway-style musical based on Huxley’s Ape and Essence (it’s now shredded—I didn’t get much further than a rousing march, “Seventy-Six Trombones” in an apocalyptic setting). This series of posts was also inspired by music. I might even repeat some of the songs from that collection! Enjoy.]

You might recognize the snippet of the title as lyrics from a Janis Joplin song? I prefer the Kris Kristofferson version of “Me and Bobby McGee”; after all, he wrote the song! And his C&W mellow baritone belting out the song is much more satisfying than Joplin’s screechy, cat-fighting rendition. (Janet, not one to respect copyrights, unfortunately changed the lyrics too, including the snippet in the title.) I’ve always seen the song as unrequited love, something hard to see with the Joplin version.

What! Author Steven M. Moore is a romantic? You’re justified in thinking just the opposite, of course. I don’t, won’t, and can’t write fluffy romances or erotica. The sci-fi rom-com Time Traveler’s Guide through the Multiverse came the closest. And the love between the main characters therein is hardly unrequited! It isn’t often unrequited in other novels as well.

Pam Stuart and Detective Castilblanco held the record of unrequited love until Esther Brookstone and Bastiann van Coevorden tied it. In both cases, love was “unrequited” for only two novels in the corresponding series. And I wouldn’t exactly call what they experienced before tying the knot unrequited either.

But Kristofferson’s song is more complex because it also makes me think of the “road trip” story, where two free souls come together in unusual circumstances and draw closer as the journey progresses. The African Queen with Hepburn and Bogart is a good early example from Hollywood; so is Thelma and Louise. The entire Indiana Jones series can be seen as one long romantic road trip, although Indy and his true love interest aren’t together most of the time.

It’s strange that I can’t recall a serious novel that’s just a romantic road trip. Of course, my memory isn’t super-sized by any stretch of the imagination. The only one that comes to mind is Le Carré’s Little Drummer Girl, and that’s only part of that novel. Modesty aside, I could again use Time Traveler’s Guide… as an example, a romantic road trip to beat all road trips! It’s a comedy, though, a bit slap-sticky, ribald, and tongue-in-the-cheek. (Most reviewers lamentably seemed to miss the point.) Aristocrats and Assassins might be another example, as well as Rembrandt’s Angel, but the road trips aren’t the main theme in either novel, even though the protagonists move around a lot.

Romance and road trips aren’t main themes in my novels. They’re present in some (Mary Jo Melendez has several in her series, for example, and enjoys a bit of romance in the process), simply because romance is part of life and my characters do travel around a bit, as my motto “Around the world and to the stars!” indicates. The reason for this neglect might not be obvious: There’s a lot more to life than romance and road trips.

I celebrate life, not just a few of its aspects. I don’t, won’t, and can’t constrain my prose, wherever it leads me, and I rarely like fiction that seems too constrained and narrowly focused. I do like Kristofferson’s song, though—his version, not Joplin’s.

***

Comments are always welcome.

Two more “Esther Brookstone” novels. Did you miss them? Maybe you thought Esther’s adventures ended with the story of her honeymoon with Bastiann, Death on the Danube? No, there are more adventures involving crimes back in merry old England after the couple returns home. In #4, Palettes, Patriots, and Prats, they befriend an American artist, only to find there’s a lot more to her troubles than expected. In #5, Leonardo and the Quantum Code, everyone wants to steal new algorithms for quantum computers based on ideas of Leonardo Da Vinci. If you love the idea of 21^st versions of Miss Marple (Esther) and Hercule Poirot (Bastiann), don’t miss any of the books in this series.

Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!

I gave my newsletter subscribers a little spiel about the importance of education this month, so I thought I’d elaborate on it a bit more. While most of us might recognize the importance of both formal and informal education, I haven’t used education as a major theme in my novels, or educators, for that matter.

Sure, Detective Castilblanco takes his Buddhist lessons from his mentor, and STEM student Kayla Jones has an early school friend in Billy, but my novels don’t take place in a classroom. Gail, one main character in Time Traveler’s Guide through the Multiverse, and her new lab assistant, Jeff, who’s the other, work at a small college outside Philly, but I only use that setting at the beginning of the novel to joke around a bit about weird professors (I once was one). Using only my stories, you might conclude I don’t value formal education very much (I do).

I think education is important, formal or otherwise. I would have discovered books without it (I basically did, and I certainly read some that wouldn’t have met the approval of my teachers). Yet I probably wouldn’t have had a decent day-job without my formal education. Now it allows me to write my stories without worrying very much about the financial aspects of publishing.

My father, an excellent artist who was also a gruff old fellow with a heart of gold, often said, “Children should be seen, not heard.” The same can be said about education. I don’t mean we should take it for granted, far from it. Rather, it’s such a basic necessity and right that we shouldn’t have to think about it very much. It’s like air: We need it and should maintain its quality, but we generally don’t think about air with every breath we take—that’s automatic. I don’t discuss air in my books much (except for a few scenes in More than Human: The Mensa Contagion), and I don’t discuss education that much either.

Yet there’s a subtle sidebar here: My novels often treat profound and serious themes (even a sci-fi rom-com like Time Traveler’s Guide) that they can be considered educational because of those themes. You might say they educate by example. Or, by simply exposing readers to issues they might not otherwise think about. I know some readers don’t like that. All I can say to them is that there’s plenty of fluffy, formulaic novels out there to keep them happy.

We can learn from reading books, fiction included. Maybe books where that can be done aren’t bestsellers or become blockbuster movies, but I can’t lower myself to write simple novels. Or read them, for that matter. I need to continue learning about life and this world and others, a continuing education about the human (or ET) experience. I find this informal process, reading fiction, an important part of my education. I hope you do too.

***

Comments are always welcome.

Two more “Esther Brookstone” novels. Did you miss them? Maybe you thought Esther’s adventures ended with the story of her honeymoon with Bastiann, Death on the Danube? No, there are more adventures involving crimes back in merry old England after the couple returns home. In #4, Palettes, Patriots, and Prats, they befriend an American artist, only to find there’s a lot more to her troubles than expected. In #5, Leonardo and the Quantum Code, everyone wants to steal new algorithms for quantum computers based on ideas of Leonardo Da Vinci. If you love the idea of 21^st versions of Miss Marple (Esther) and Hercule Poirot (Bastiann), don’t miss any of the books in this series.

Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!

[As a native son of the great state of California, I can emphasize with Irwin Pound’s sentiments found in this short novella (or long short story?). My distance from my current home in Montclair to California is farther than his distance from London to the Lake District, but the yearning is probably just as strong. I hope you enjoy this story, another British-style mystery.]

The Prodigal Son

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Seven

Before leaving, Irwin had a call from his superintendent in London—partly a scolding for not relaxing on his administrative leave, and partly some worrying about his condition. Irwin wondered how the old man had found out. He asked Robert in the car.

“He’s an old army buddy. Small world, Irwin. Had no idea you worked for him, of course. I felt obligated to let him know. He values you, lad.”

Robert glanced at Irwin and then back to the road. Robert’s hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel. Is he imagining our accident?

“Did he say to tell me I should get off this case?”

“I told him we were short-handed with Tim in the ward, so he okayed it. I had to promise to be your protector.”

“You told him my theory?”

Robert laughed. “Didn’t say it was yours. He groaned. But there’s some logic to it, and so I thought he’d give a little less backtalk thinking it’s mine. And be more amenable to loaning you to me for a while. Like I said, we’re old friends.”

“How did you end up here and the super in London?”

“I’m from here; he’s from there. We were in a like mindset, feeling compelled after our service to protect our own. He’s got the worst of it, in my opinion. Our usual cases around here often reduce to stupid tourists doing stupid things, or locals who become drunk and rowdy. Say, I just thought of something. You know, Tim couldn’t imagine climbing up that trail.”

“Even Devon can climb that trail.”

“Probably not like you can. You have a natural gift for it. I was thinking the Mountain Rescue Team could sure use your skills.”

“That would take all the fun out of hiking.”

“There’s that.”

They drove in silence the rest of the way to Penrith.

***

At that Penrith address, Mills and Pound found an elderly lady tending her front garden. They introduced themselves and showed their warrant cards. She studied Irwin’s a bit more.

“Scotland Yard?” Irwin nodded. “My, my, you must be here on important business. We don’t get many London plods this far north. Maybe as tourists, but not as cops.”

“Do you know anyone named Sara?” said Robert, trying to get everyone focused.

She eyed him with suspicion. “What if I do?”

“She’s a person-of-interest in an investigation,” Irwin said.

She wiped her hands on her apron. “You’d better come inside.” In the dark foyer, she pointed to an open doorway. “Sit in there. I’ll bring us a mash and cakes. You can sit anywhere but the armchair over by the fireplace. That’s Oscar’s.”

“Your husband? Is he at home?” Mills said.

“Oscar’s my cat. He’s out prowling and making his neighborhood rounds now, but when he gets back, he’ll be angry if someone’s in his chair. Don’t have a husband, by the way. Never did. Men just want you around to bear their children, and then they become a damn burden when they’re old.” She pointed a scrawny finger at Mills. “I should warn your wife.”

She turned and left, presumably for the kitchen. Mills and Pound entered the sitting room and took seats on a sofa with threadbare upholstery, trying to keep smiles from turning to laughter.

***

A bit later, the woman returned with tea service for three and tea cakes. “I’m Sara’s aunt, by the way, Eleanor Bixby. What’s that girl gone and done now?”

“What makes you think she’s done something?” Robert said.

Eleanor watched Irwin try a tea cake and smiled as he gave a little sigh. “She’s gone several days now. We had a real barney and she just up and left. That young one can be wild. Can’t blame her too much. She just lost her mum, ’twas my sister, and her useless lout of a father deserted the two at a young age.”

Irwin had been standing when she’d entered, roaming the small room, examining family pictures. He showed one to the woman. “I’m guessing this is the three of you, you and your sister and Sara?” She nodded even though she was putting the service in order. “You look very much alike.”

“We all sounded alike too. Fortunately the father’s dirty genes didn’t affect Sara very much. She’s a Bixby through and through, sometimes to my regret.”

“Was he by any chance named James Trent?” Mills said.

“Yes. Never knew what became of him, and frankly I don’t give a damn. Just confirmed my belief that men are useless, present company possibly being exceptions.” She smiled at Irwin.

“Do you know if she had any plans to meet up with her father?” Robert said.

“I doubt it, but she might want to give him stick a bit if he ever shows his face around here.” She suddenly turned white. “Was he the man who was murdered? I saw that on the local telly station.” Both Mills and Pound nodded. “Oh, my. What have you done, Sara?” she asked the tin ceiling. “That’s why she’s a person-of-interest? You want to question her?”

“We’d like to speak to her, yes. Do you have any idea where she might be?”

“Probably doing a lie-in with some prat she picked up. That’s her style. She’s one to up her skirt for a pint if the plonker’s half-way good-looking. I worry she’ll catch one of them diseases.”

“And she’s not mentioned her father lately?”

“There’s a reason she’s a Bixby and not a Trent. Her mum went back to her maiden name, so Sara became a Bixby too.”

“Once again, can you think of any reason she would meet with her father?”

“Other than to kill him?” Robert nodded. Eleanor thought some more. “I still think my sister’s estate’s being settled. Maybe that has something to do with it? Damn barristers are always mucking up things and dragging their heels to up their fees.”

“Is there some reason for the estate not being settled?”

“Not that I know of, except that her mum had quite a bit of money. She was into real estate, you know, investing in inns and resorts mostly. Good money in that here in the Lake District, if you can find reliable people to run them. Tourists will pay exorbitant prices to be near a river or lake. She started small, but by the end when the big C took her out, she was doing quite well. Helped me keep this place too, my little sis did. A good-hearted lady who didn’t deserve James Trent. Not at all.”

Chapter Eight

Eleanor managed to find contact information for the legal establishment handling the mother’s estate. The office was in Kendal, another bit of a ride. Mills and Pound ran into tourist traffic, probably mostly park visitors, but pulled into a nearby car park after miles of Robert’s swearing in Cumbrian dialect.

Barrister Mark Leam handled the woman’s estate, and he happened to be in. The receptionist resisted Mills—Irwin thought he heard the inspector mutter a few more Cumbrian swear words—but then Robert got her attention.

“He can either see us now, or I’ll send constables out from the station to bring him in for a wee chinwag. Your choice, madam. This is about murder.”

Leam received them, none too happy to be interrupted from doing a crossword from a two-day old Times edition. The barrister examined their warrant cards and then gestured towards seats in front of his desk.

“I understand this is about one of our clients. Damn receptionist forgot to say who. Fair warning: Attorney-client privilege means I’m not required to answer your questions.”

Irwin glanced at Robert, saw the color rising up his neck, and then tried to head off a confrontation. “We know you’re busy. We apologize for the interruption of your important task. I suppose everyone else is in court. Thank you for seeing us, Mr. Leam.”

“In court, playing golf, gone fishing,” he said with a thin smile, as if he were making an excuse for his own dawdling. “Junior members of the firm have to pick up the slack. Who’s the client?”

“Janet Bixby,” said Robert, nodding at Irwin to acknowledge his role as peacemaker…or to compliment him for the barb that the barrister had been oblivious to.

He nodded, and a shock of hay-colored hair fell over his forehead. Probably doesn’t like wearing a wig in court, Irwin thought.

“Dead, but still a client. We’re trying to sort out her will. It’s complicated.”

“In what way? Looking for the right words?”

That went by the lawyer too. “Damn fool had more money than God, but she never changed her will. And we can’t find her ex-husband. Estranged husband, to put a fine point on it. He disappeared and was out of her life, so she only changed her legal name and never got divorced. Tried to have him declared dead.”

“He inherits?” Robert said, now appearing to be a bit more in control.

“Yes, that sod named James Trent inherits if certain conditions are met. The will and the desertion precludes any direct inheritance, but he’s still in it. I can’t give you any more details because everything’s pending and might eventually go to probate court.”

Read the rest of this entry »

[Note from Steve: If you’ve downloaded “Mayhem, Murder, and Music,” the free collection of short crime fiction—see the “Free Stuff & Contests” web page if you haven’t—you know that music often inspires me. It’s always been part of my life. I even attempted once to write a Broadway-style musical based on Huxley’s Ape and Essence. (It’s now shredded—I didn’t get much further than a rousing march, “Seventy-Six Trombones” in an apocalyptic setting). This series of posts was also inspired by music. I might even repeat some of the songs from that collection! Enjoy.]

Like Neil Diamond’s existential song of the title (I love the version where a 70-piece orchestra accompanies him—it was recorded along with other famous songs on the CD at the famous Abbey Road Studios), this post is an ode to the loneliness of the artist. Whether writer, musician, painter, potter, or sculpturer, creating art is often a lonely pursuit, at least in the creative part. Diamond might have received inspiration from NYC streets for “Beautiful Noise” (also on that CD), but I’ll wager he was alone in his NYC apartment when he composed both the songs mentioned here. (Ironically, cities are often very lonely places.)

Writers of fiction, even as they mirror the romance, comedy, and tragedy of human existence in their prose, must go it alone. Patterson might have 300+ novels to his name, but his “co-authors,” who wrote a lot of them, still worked alone, as he did in his first books. Like a painter with his brushes, palette, and easel (my father was one), the writer paints with words within the solitary confinement of his story, reaching out to readers as if to slice away at that loneliness.

It’s a big decision for any creative to take: Choose loneliness in order to create. Most people can’t do it; or they don’t want to do it, thinking that creating art just creates more loneliness. There’s some truth to the latter, but creating art also is a cure for loneliness, medicine that with the proper dosage kills the ennui of disconnection.

Or maybe it’s not a decision but an addiction? Some people must create; they can’t help themselves. They’ve decided the loneliness of the creator is an obstacle they’re willing to jump over in order to be creative. And whether other people can benefit from and admire those creations or not, the creatives can still revel in their creations. That satisfaction relieves the loneliness.

I suppose there’s also the satisfaction that some creations might live on after we leave this “mortal coil.” This is one reason I include end notes in every novel. I think every author should. While it might be possible to piece together a writer’s creative life  just using her or his novels, the reason for writing them has some importance, if only as a last blow against loneliness. In my case, someone could patch together a decent biography of my life, but I suspect no one will! Yet my novels will live on, at least for a time, as evidence of my creative life…and my loneliness.

***

Comments are always welcome.

Rogue Planet. Perhaps you’re familiar with my Chaos Chronicles Trilogy Collection. Did you know several stories are set in that same sci-fi universe, including the Dr. Carlos tales and A. B. Carolan’s first three YA sci-fi mysteries? Rogue Planet is another one, and it has some Game-of-Throne aspects while still being hard sci-fi. A young prince’s planet is ruled by an oppressive theocracy that has led to a quarantine by ITUIP (Interstellar Trade Union of Independent Planets). He strives to defeat the theocracy’s leader and bring the planet back from the galaxy’s Dark Ages.

Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!

Authors like to talk about their works-in-progress (WIPs). I’d rather call them writing projects. Most of writing is DIY, up to a certain point (unless you’re James Patterson using co-authors to keep his book assembly line going). An author assembles a story like a DIY home construction project, without instructions or blueprints, of course.

I usually forget about how I assemble each of my stories—the process and the motivations. (No, I’m not going senile. I’ve just written a lot of stories!) Remodeling a kitchen or bathroom is a project that needs some kind of plan. A story, especially a novel, is no different, even if you’re a seat-of-pants writer like me, creating the story as I go with only a general plot and themes in mind. This is why my novels have end notes, a commentary that’s as useful and interesting for me to jog my memory later as it might be for readers who have finished the book. Unlike most authors, I include them in almost every book. As a reader, I appreciate it when other authors do the same.

Also unlike most authors, I often have several projects ongoing. That helps my writing because I come back to a manuscript fresh each time. (I suppose blogging can accomplish the same thing, but a blog post usually isn’t a story.) Multiple projects also help me do the content editing for each one.

So what are my current projects?

“Friday Fiction.” When I start a story, it can become short fiction (a short story or novella) or a novel, more often the former now (dashes are over more quickly than marathons). I now give away my short fiction, either in some blog posts or as free downloads (see the “Free Stuff & Contests” web page at this site for a list). You’ve seen the beginning of the novella “The Prodigal Son” (archived in “Friday Fiction,” of course). This will be followed by “Poetic Justice” and “The Conference,” two more British-style mystery novellas.

The Denisovan Trilogy, Books Two and Three. Book One is already published, so these two are projects. I want to know what happens to Kayla Jones as much as some readers do. For me and them, A.B. Carolan needs to get his butt in gear! These novels, unlike the first, will take place “out there somewhere,” not on Earth—stories about the descendants of ancient hominins in space, if you will.

The Last Humans: Long Days (tentative title). Readers of the first two novels probably realized there might be another novel in the making to complete the trilogy. Penny Castro has more battles to fight, this time with what remains of the Russian government. (Because of Amazon’s error made by confusing the first two books, my motivation here is a bit low. Unlike the second, you can bet I won’t put this third novel for sale on Amazon!)

More than Human: The Complete and Unabridged History. This is a big project. I want to expand and continue the saga of Homo sapiens 2.0 and their Mensan buddies found in More than Human: The Mensa Contagion. We left it with humans and Mensans in a starship heading for a star near Sol yet not visible to the unaided eye. As with Kayla Jones, I want to know what happens with Captain Kensha, her XO Sara, and the starship’s crew. Maybe you do too.

“Esther Brookstone Art Detective.” You now have five novels in this British-style mystery and thriller series. In the middle one, Death on the Danube, principal characters Esther and Bastiann got married, but they even had a mystery to solve on their honeymoon cruise down the Danube. I didn’t stop there. Two more books involve crimes on Esther’s home turf. I have some tentative ideas for more novels; we’ll see if they gel. These novels are my longest to date, so the next one would be long too…a real marathon I’d have to run again.

I can’t guarantee that I’ll be able to complete any of these projects. I might even lose interest in some of them. I hope readers will be understanding. After all, I haven’t signed a contract with a traditional publisher to deliver a finished manuscript for any of these future stories. (I’ve experimented with traditional publishing, but I shall not repeat that experiment. I’ve been burned twice now.)

In this post, I just wanted to let readers know that I’m working on several projects. My addiction to storytelling continues, at least for now. (Amazon and other bad players make my motivation more difficult to come by with time, though.) I’m sure that I’ll leave this “mortal coil” with projects uncompleted. That’s inevitable…and the curse of any storyteller.

***

Comments are always welcome.

Rogue Planet. Perhaps you’re familiar with my Chaos Chronicles Trilogy Collection. Did you know several stories are set in that same sci-fi universe, including the Dr. Carlos tales and A. B. Carolan’s first three YA sci-fi mysteries? Rogue Planet is another one, and it has some Game-of-Throne aspects while still being hard sci-fi. A young prince’s planet is ruled by an oppressive theocracy that has led to a quarantine by ITUIP (Interstellar Trade Union of Independent Planets). He strives to defeat the theocracy’s leader and bring the planet back from the galaxy’s Dark Ages.

Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!

[As a native son of the great state of California, I can emphasize with Irwin Pound’s sentiments found in this short novella (or long short story?). My distance from my current home in Montclair to California is farther than his distance from London to the Lake District, but the yearning is probably just as strong. I hope you enjoy this story, another British-style mystery.]

The Prodigal Son

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Four

The police substation was mostly dark except for the night sergeant’s post near the entrance and Toby’s desk in one corner of the main room.

“What do you have for me, lad?” Robert said to Toby, who looked no older than sixteen or so.

“James Talent is the victim’s name. He’s from Southampton. Popped up on a shipping company’s website’s personnel list. VP for that company, as a matter of fact.”

“What was he doing here so far north?”

“Tourist. Three weeks of vacation. Must be nice to have that.”

“I wish I did,” Irwin said. “And not the hard way like I got mine the hard way. Was he with his wife?”

“Not married.” Toby winked slyly at Irwin. “Doesn’t mean he didn’t have a lady friend along.”

“My, how children grow up fast these days,” said Robert, winking at Irwin. “Didn’t happen to see him at the inn, did you?”
“No, but that’s a good idea. We should check places around here where tourists might seek lodging. He had to be staying somewhere, and we now have a name as well as a picture.”

“Lots of places and lots of tourists this time of year.” Robert thought a moment. “We’ll make a list, ordered in some logical way—maybe customer rankings, seeing that Talent was a VIP and probably loaded—and divide them up between us. I hope you don’t mind. That’s why I brought you along. I’m a bit shorthanded. Toby, go home now. Time you get your beauty sleep, lad, and I don’t want your mum to kill me.”

Toby made a face but then nodded. “Yes, sir. Good luck.” He handed a photo to Irwin. “Please autograph this, sir.”

Irwin took the photo; it was of himself, probably from his Met file.

“Not often we get a DI from London up here, sir. I want to work in the Yard.”

Robert frowned; Irwin smiled. Why not? He signed at the bottom of the photo with his biro.

“I’ll work hard to discourage you from doing that, Toby.”

“Um, off with you, lad. And thanks for all your help.”

Robert watched the lad go and then eyed Irwin. “Nice of you to do that. He’s a clever fellow. Can’t hurt to encourage him, I suppose.”

“No, sir.”

“Stop calling me sir, damn it! Let’s get to work, Irwin. We need to make some progress on this case.”

They didn’t find any lodging having James Talent as guest. Irwin suggested that the tourist might have been staying with relatives and friends. Or using an assumed name. They became busy developing two more lists.

Monday would be a busy day.

Chapter Five

Monday afternoon, DS Tim Harding hit paydirt when he received a call. He rang Mills. The two DIs had dashed off all the way to Penrith to an upscale hotel where the clerk claimed to have a client matching Talent’s description. The local television channel had featured the story on the late Sunday and Monday morning’s news.

That person-of-interest had turned out to be a traveling pharmaceuticals salesman. Robert and Irwin jumped back in the car and headed back toward the police station. Fortunately the smaller hotel corresponding to Toby’s call was in the next village over from it, more like the inn where Irwin was staying, with only eight rooms and no pub.

When they arrived, they examined the check-in log after showing their warrant cards to the woman who ran the place. She seemed nervous, but, like the first establishment, she’d at least called in her doubts about the hotel’s guest who seemed to match the picture she’d seen on the tele.

“James Smythe? Sounds like an assumed name to me,” said Robert.

Irwin winked at the woman. “She saw past the name, sir.”

Robert glared at him. Irwin knew it was for calling him “sir.” But how can I not call him that? Even though they had the same rank, Irwin respected Robert, who long ago had admitted his mistake in arresting Irwin.

“Have you seen this bloke around here recently?” Robert asked the innkeeper.

“He’s still checked in.” She thought a moment. “I haven’t seen him on my shifts for the last few days, though. There are two clerks here when I can’t be. I can ask around if you like.”

“No, that’s okay. If it’s our victim, he won’t be around.”

She blanched. “He’s the murder victim?”

Irwin figured she hadn’t followed the story behind the picture. Perhaps the tele’s newscast hadn’t transmit all the information?  Young children? Trains? The inn wasn’t far from the small station either, but most trains wouldn’t stop, only tooting their whistles as they blew through the village.

“Probably,” Irwin said. “Can we see his room? Or do we need to find a judge to get a search order?”

“I own this place. I have a policy about visitors’ privacy, but in this case, we can ignore it. I can show you Mr. Smythe’s room.”

She rightly figures the warrant would waste her time as well as ours, thought Irwin. That would rarely happen in London.

“We’ll not disturb anything,” Mills said, “and we’ll ask you and your staff to stay out. If he’s our victim, mind you.”

“I hope that soon ends so I can rent out the room again.”

They followed the owner up to a small room on the third floor. “I’ll wait here on the landing,” she said after opening the door for them.

***

With powdered latex gloves and Teflon booties, Mills and Pound searched the room. Toiletries had no special interest for them, but Robert searched through the valise and larger suitcase while Irwin went through the clothes. Several handkerchiefs bore the monogram J.L.T. The surname didn’t match with Smythe obviously. He told Robert.

“Suitcases’ initials are J.L.T. too,” Robert said. “We’ll want to dust them for prints.” He then went through the little desk’s drawers and then the bin. “Here’s something: The name Sara followed by an address and phone number. No town indicated and the exchange could be anywhere in the area. A job for Toby, I’m thinking.”

“We’re a bit further along at least, inspector. That is, if Sara is our killer.”

“I think we can call in the constables and others helping with the search for now. Mr. Smythe is our victim. We now need to check out this address and phone number.”

“Perhaps he was up to no good,” Irwin said, “using an alias. Was he here to kill Sara? Or to blackmail her?”

“A VIP in a major shipping company? Sounds like a stretch. In any case, whoever it was, was angry enough to kill him.”

“He could be up to his ears in gambling debt. I had a case like that in London.”

“A murder case?”

“An attempted murder case. The target was the man the perpetrator owed money to.”

“Ha! Human weakness often rears its ugly head when money is involved. I suppose the prat was lying to his wife about it too.”

“No. He was a widower. Nasty bloke, though.”

“Can’t say the missus drove him to it then.” He glanced at the manager pacing in the corridor. “We’d better do a runner before she wears herself out.”

They thanked the manager and returned to Robert’s vehicle in the nearby car park.

Chapter Six

“Got it!” Toby said.

Tim Harding was soon looking over his shoulder. “Jot that down for me. I’ll take it to Mills and Pound.”

Tim was a bit nervous as he walked towards his superior’s office. It’d been bad enough working for the crusty old inspector; now he had to deal with two. Although Pound was nearer his age and less gruff, the two together made a demanding duo. Of course, Irwin was helping without being paid. Good of him to do so, but his help sidelines me a lot.

“Have a seat,” Irwin said as he entered Mills’s office.

“Got something, lad?” Robert said.

“Town’s Penrith where you were. Shall we call the number?”

Robert nodded. There was no answer. The inspector looked at his watch. “The missus signed me up for a mash fest in Windermere. Tim, go with Irwin and check out that address. Don’t hesitate to call me. I could use a good excuse to get out of high tea.”

“Will do,” Tim said, his mood brightening.

Irwin, feeling a bit sorry for Robert and his social life, climbed in besides Tim, who was already at the wheel of the patrol car. He saw himself in the young sergeant, an energetic fellow who was on his way up if life would be fair to him.

“I know the way,” he said. “I guess you do too.”

“People fished on the lake when I was young, but I was more into hiking. Go for it. Roads have changed, and all that. I’m a bit stressed, if you want to know the truth.”

“Didn’t count on being roped into an investigation, I imagine.”

“I’m supposed to be recovering from a previous one.” Tim pulled out into traffic.

Irwin saw the vehicle coming at them before Tim did. “Look out!”

The car crashed head-on, airbags deployed, and day turned into night.

***

“You’ll live, Irwin.”

He felt a hand pat his, but the voice seemed distant. Yet familiar? He opened his eyes to see Devon.

“What-what happened?”

“Someone crashed into your car. There were some witnesses who said a small man in a hoodie ran away from the scene, leaving the hire-car there. Coppers poured out of the station and pulled you two out before both cars caught fire.”

“Tim?”

“Banged up a bit more than you are. Broken arm and cuts on his face from windscreen shards.”

“I need to talk to him. Maybe he can describe the driver.”

“My uncle is with him now. You’re staying put until the physician clears you. Tim had a concussion, so you might also have one.”

Irwin moved a bit, looking for water on the nightstand. “I think I’m more dehydrated.”

“Maybe your mouth is dry, but you were on IV. I just disconnected you. If the doctor gives the okay, you can go. I’ll get some ice chips.”

She was gone only a moment when Robert showed up.

“Could Tim describe that crazy driver?” Irwin asked.

“Not very well. Said he looked like a young kid with a Man-U sweatshirt, hood and all. Fake name on the rental receipt.”

Irwin thought a moment. “A woman dressed like that might be mistaken for a kid.”

Robert raised his eyebrows. “I was writing it off as some kid out for a joyride in a stolen motor. I know what you’re thinking, but aren’t you being paranoid?”

“I’m helping on the investigation, and I am your only witness. That’s maybe two good reasons to try to kill me.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that. Let me check out this Sara person. That could sort things a bit.”

“Didn’t the rental clerk ask to see a driver’s permit?”

“Not even. And he might lose his job over that, poor prat.”

“I want to go with you then.”

“Where to?”

“Penrith. We need to find this Sara.”

Robert nodded. “I’ll ask the NHS pill-pusher if it’s okay. I’m going to get hell for having a civilian consultant on this case, so I might as well go all out.”

***

Comments are always welcome.

A. B. Carolan’s Origins. You can’t say A. B.’s novels are British-style mysteries; he’s Irish and he writes sci-fi mysteries for young adults. In this one, Kayla Jones has dreams she can’t understand. Her future seems determined as the brilliant STEM student who looks forward to a research career, but her past gets in the way. As if the chaos afflicting the world and leading to her adopted father’s death wasn’t enough, killers begin to pursue her. With some friends who come to her aid, she’s on her way to discover a conspiracy that can be traced to prehistoric battles waged by hominins bent on conquest of a primitive Earth.

Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!

Most readers of this blog and my recent works know that I’m surviving the Covid pandemic by reading a lot, in particular, binge-reading entire series of British-style mysteries. I published a list at the end of my little collection, Sleuthing, British-style, written in honor of Dame Agatha, who started that story tradition. So here are some additions to that list (in alphabetical order, which coincidentally corresponds to the order of light-to-serious themes), the best of my recent binge-reading:

A. G. Barnett’s “Mary Blake” series. Interesting concept: The subtitle’s character is an aging actor who has lost her series role and her career; she discovers she has talents as an amateur sleuth. A bit of stretch for the reader’s imagination, especially concerning the patience of the inspector she often annoys (she’s a younger, meddling Miss Marple), but entertaining stories nonetheless.

M. S. Morris’s “Bridget Hart” series. The subtitle’s character is a single mom who struggles to make her mark as a DI in and around the hallowed halls of Oxford University’s colleges. There are many secondary characters readers will find interesting.

Gretta Mulrooney’s “Tyrone Swift” series. Here the subtitle’s character is a PI who has good creds—he’s no amateur sleuth because of past service with the Met and Interpol. He also has problems with the women in his life. These novels are a bit darker about their treatment of more modern and serious themes than those above. The main character harks back to hard-boiled, tenacious PIs of yore.

If you use a Kindle, it’s amazingly easy to sail through these series, one book after another. I found each novel is far more entertaining than the summer’s offering of droll telly shows, whether “new” game shows or reality crap or reruns. Sorry. Streaming video doesn’t appeal to me either, nor do computer games. Each novel is good for two to three nights of reading (they’re short).

Modesty aside, I’ll not refrain from mentioning Books Four and Five in the “Esther Brookstone Art Detective” series, Palettes, Patriots and Prats and Leonardo and the Quantum Code. The influence of all that binge-reading is obvious as Esther and Bastiann return to her home turf after their honeymoon only to run into more trouble on UK soil. The glossary in my collection mentioned above is extended in these novels as I continue to adopt the British vernacular if not the spelling, (The entire series represents ripe fruit for binge-reading, of course, but the novels are longish and hardly readable in two or three nights. Maybe the five in total equal fifteen of the above?)

I can only wish for other extended series in the sci-fi and thriller genres (besides my own, of course). The last one I read in the first genre was Asimov’s extended Foundation series, and that was years ago! Clancy’s “Jack Ryan” series is also too dated (not that it has the caliber of any of the books I’ve mentioned). (If anyone shouts back “Fifty Shades,” I might become violent. The “thrills” there are sicker than a story about a serial killer!) The fact that there are so many British-style mysteries shows they’re popular and a blessing for avid readers who still prefer books to streaming video and computer games.

In all these British-style mysteries, including mine, American readers have a chance to learn a lot about their English cousins…and sometimes those cousins will have a chance to learn a bit about us, the crazy Yanks!

***

Comments are always welcome.

A. B. Carolan’s Origins. You can’t say A. B.’s novels are British-style mysteries; he’s Irish, and he writes sci-fi mysteries for young adults. In this one, Kayla Jones has dreams she can’t understand. Her future seems determined as the brilliant STEM student who looks forward to a research career, but her past gets in the way. As if the chaos afflicting the world and leading to her adopted father’s death wasn’t enough, killers begin to pursue her. With some friends who come to her aid, she’s on her way to discover a conspiracy that can be traced to prehistoric battles waged by hominins bent on conquest of a primitive Earth.

Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!