Murder, Local Style, a guest blog by Leslie Karst

 JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: Every time I read one of Leslie Karst's Orchard Isle books, I wonder, Why didn't I set my mysteries in Hawai'i? We both like writing about the joys and travails of small town living, we both have a great couple at the center of our stories, I even have moments of humor - although considering how many times Leslie's been nominated for a Lefty Award, she's got me beat on that front.

I can only conclude it's because I settled on the frozen tundra in Maine, and she was smart enough to live on the Big Island. And we both firmly believe writing what you know creates the best experience for the reader. As you'll see when she talks about Murder, Local Style...

 

 

 

Traditional and cozy mysteries are often set in a small town or village, and for good reason. People in a small town tend to know one another, so when something goes awry—such as a murder—they make for good suspects and witnesses. And when the amateur sleuth lives in the same community, she too will have a special connection to and insider information regarding the crime.

 

The street I live on in Hilo, Hawai‘i is in one of the town’s older neighborhoods (dating from 1930s), and many of its residents are the children or grandchildren of families who bought the properties when they were new. Although originally a Japanese-Hawaiian neighborhood, it’s now a blend of the original families along with “locals” (generally a mix of native Hawaiian, Filipino, Portuguese, and Chinese) and haoles (those of European descent).

Our neighborhood on Boy's Day

 

My wife Robin and I, of course, fall into the latter category, but we were welcomed warmly into the neighborhood when we bought our house eighteen years ago. And we love our street. Folks not only know one another, but often host social events for others on the street: Halloween parties and boxcar derbys! And it’s marvelous watching the  kids play together in the street and on our front lawns—riding their bikes and playing hide-and-go-seek, just like I did when I was a kid back in the 1960s. 

The view from my office window

 

Of course no neighborhood is perfect, and ours definitely has its drawbacks. Lawnmowers, blowers, and weed whackers are a frequent background noise. People use loud pneumatic tools to work on their cars. Dogs on chains whine and bark. And neighbor disputes arise over trees blocking ocean views and the feeding of feral cats. 

Some island dogs - not belonging to my neighbors!

 Not so fun, these things.

 

But, I thought one day as I slammed shut my bedroom window in a vain attempt to block out the grinding of a neighbor’s power saw, what a marvelous premise for a murder mystery!

 

What would happen if the resident of a tight-knit street in little Hilo town ended up dead in a highly suspicious manner? And what if he’d been having disputes—from the serious to the petty—with many of his neighbors in the months leading up to his death? And to add an additional local element to the story, what if I set it within a neighborhood orchid society? Because we all know how competitive hobbies like orchid growing can be.

 

Thus was born Murder, Local Style, book three in my Orchid Isle mystery series (yes, another reason for the orchids) set on the magnificent Big Island of Hawai‘i.

 

Mind you, this is not a critique of Hilo. Quite the opposite. In setting this series on Hawai‘i Island, my biggest desire (in addition to crafting a compelling mystery story) was to bring to readers a picture of what the place is truly like—not for tourists, but for those who actually live here. 

My beautiful neighborhood

 

“Local style” is a phrase commonly heard in Hawai‘i, and means something that is typical of the way people do things in the islands. Kicking off your rubber slippahs and leaving them scattered about the front porch, eating Spam musubi for lunch, and throwing the “shaka” to say “thank you” or “hey!” are all examples of local style. The phrase signifies casual comfort, sharing food, and respecting local culture. And since this new book is set in Valerie and Kristen’s small neighborhood in Hilo and concerns the relationships between (and disputes among) the people who live there, Murder, Local Style seemed the perfect title for the story.

 

So, if anything, this is a love letter to my adopted town. For in the end (no spoiler here; this is after all a cozy mystery), we see how a small community in distress can come together to bring a killer to justice and restore order to their beloved neighborhood.

 

And yes, there’s plenty of beautiful Hawaiian culture, delicious food, and aloha spirit along the way! 

Hilo Farmers' Market

Readers: For a chance to win a signed copy of Murder, Local Style, answer this question: Do you live in a close-knit neighborhood, and if so, are there disputes between the residents? (Sorry, US only.) 

 

About Murder, Local Style:

It’s been an eventful transition, but retired caterer Valerie Corbin and her wife Kristen are finally settling into life on the Big Island of Hawai’i. Val’s even joined the neighborhood orchid society to make some new friends. So when she’s asked to step in to cater their latest social event, as the newbie of the group she can’t exactly say no.

But what should have been a straightforward gig is soon a dining disaster when the food from the event poisons and kills the society president. As Val herself becomes a suspect in the murder investigation, she’s determined to uncover the truth. Who would want to kill the mild-mannered president of the orchid society? Turns out the list is longer than a celebrity chef's tasting menu. Apparently some of the residents did not “love thy neighbor.” Can she reveal the killer’s identity before they strike again?

 

Bio: Leslie Karst is the Agatha, Lefty, and Macavity Award-nominated author of the Orchid Isle Mysteries, the Sally Solari culinary mysteries, and the memoir, “Justice is Served: A Tale of Scallops, the Law,and Cooking for RBG.” When not writing, you’ll find her cooking, cycling, gardening, and observing cocktail hour promptly at five o’clock. Leslie and her wife and their Jack Russell mix split their time between Hilo, Hawai‘i and Santa Cruz, California.

Maxxing Out

 JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: Okay, let's leave the weather behind for a bit, shall we? Instead, let's goggle at the trends the youths are pursuing these days, specifically "maxxing."

 

If you're as terminally online as I am (I've GOT to use Freedom to block Reddit!) you've probably seen one of the most popular forms - looksmaxxing. This is popular among a subgroup of young men who don't believe what girls really want is someone thoughtful, reliable, and maybe has a sense of humor. Instead, these youts (shout out to My Cousin Vinny) do weird things to their faces and bodies with the goal of maximizing their attractiveness. One is famous for hitting himself in the jaw with a hammer, which, if I had know was effective, I could have used for Youngest's irregularly shaped lower mandible, and saved $8k on a surgical bill.

 

A newly popular concept is frictionmaxxing; adding in, you guessed it, friction to ordinary computer or machine assisted tasks so we don't all collectively lose our ability to think and move. If I had known about the term back in the old days, I would have used it to describe the sensation of wearing pantyhose in the summer.

 

But wait, there's more! Nonnamaxxing: acting like an Italian granny and making real food and taking time to enjoy it. I swear I'm not making this up, dear readers. Also, nothingmaxxing, which means Gen Z has discovered "daydreaming" and "staring into space vacantly."

 

On the flip side, you can also lifemaxx, making every aspect of your daily life all about productivity, improvement, and gainz. 

 

I've decided I should add some maxxing to my life. This are the fab new trends I propose, all of which I expect to see appear in trendy online magazines shortly.

 

Dopaminemaxxing - eating a whole bag of Reeses Easter peanut butter eggs (that you got for 50% off)

 

Sleepmaxxing - What's better than 8 hours? How about 10, with an extra half hour to snuggle under the duvet and nothingmaxx?

 

Fuelmaxxing - yeah, I'm driving 35 mph because that's the speed limit, buddy, and I don't care how close to my rear bumper you get with your Dodge Ram pickup. Don't you think about hitting me, because I'm also insurancemaxxing.

 

Gummaxxing - going to see if I an market this to my dentist as an alternative to the word 'flossing.'  I swear, this rebrand will probably turn a whole generation into after-every-meal flossers.

 

Babymaxxing - this is what I do when I drive up (at the speed limit, to save gas) and see my grandson Paulie. First I kiss his rosy cheeks (mwah!) then I play tummy tuba with his fat belly, and finally I eat his toes all up nom nom nom. Honestly, this is much more fun than any other maxxing. 

 

Shihtzumaxxiing - pretty much the same as babymaxxing, but with belly rubs instead of tummy tuba. 

 

Maxmaxxing - spending more time with my nephew Max.

 

Now it's your turn, dear readers. What do you think needs to be maxxed out in your life? 

I Want Spring Clothing!

 JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: Yesterday's subject was a little bleak, yeah? Sorry. I think this past winter has broken me. I just want to be warm again - not only in my kitchen, when the woodstove's blazing, or in my parlor/office, with the doors shut and my wee electrical hater on. I want it to be warm in my whole house, which I keep VERY cool because, as is common in much of northern New England housing, I heat with fuel oil, which is basically tossing ten dollar bills into the furnace to keep it going.

 

 

I want it to be warm when I'm working outside, and running errands, and going to church (another huge old building! Even with the new electric radiators, most of us wear coats or woolen scarves during mass.)

 

And mostly, I want it to be warm so I can finally toss off my three-layer outfits and bulky sweaters and wear something light and fun and colorful!

 

I know, it sounds so frivolous. But I've been wearing my winter workhorse staples since October, and I've gotten so sick of them. It feels like the only pants I ever put on are black corduroy, red velveteen, and gray flannel. With black cashmere, red wool, and gray alpaca. Sometimes I go wild and wear gray cashmere, black wool, and red alpaca. Woo hoo.

 

It's not a gendered thing, either. I remember my late husband putting on one of his Hawaiian shirts to wear at school despite the early April sleet. He would go out and do the first yard work of the season in his favorite T-shirt. He always denied he was cold - he used to say a native Mainer didn't need anything else when it was 45°/7°.  Maybe. But I suspect he was just as sick of winter clothes as I am now. 

 

I can almost hear them murmuring from the containers beneath my bed and the clothes rack in the attic. "Julia..." they say. "Linen skirts, sleeveless shirts, cropped jeans! Flamingo pink, aqua blue, mango orange!" 

 

Someday, my beloved spring and summer clothing, someday. Yes, it snowed yesterday. Yes, tonight's low will be 24°/-4°. But it won't be cold forever. And I just read we may have a super El Nino year coming, with hotter than usual temperatures! Usually I'm anti-climate change, but after this winter, I may have to change my stance.

 

How about you, dear readers? Are you longing to exchange your  turtlenecks for crop tops? And for those of you living in balmier climes, does the opposite happen? Do you sometimes yearn for boots and sweaters?

Melancholy April

 JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: Just about a year ago, I had the great honor to serve as the officiant at the funeral of my best friend's father. He died at 92, still traveling and still independent, so if any death after nine decades an come as a surprise, this one did.

 

While working on his Eulogy, I discovered something startling: there are a vast number of melancholy poems about April. Of course, we all immediately think of TS Eliot - April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land - and Walt Whitman: When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d, And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night, I mourn’d, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring. 

 

But there's also American poet Delmore Schwartz (1913-1966)

Calmly we walk through this April’s day,   

Metropolitan poetry here and there,   

In the park sit pauper and rentier,   

The screaming children, the motor-car   

Fugitive about us, running away,   

Between the worker and the millionaire   

Number provides all distances,   

It is Nineteen Thirty-Seven now,   

Many great dears are taken away,   

 

 

What will become of you and me

(This is the school in which we learn ...)   

Besides the photo and the memory?

(... that time is the fire in which we burn.)

 

 and Maine's own Edna St. Vincent Millay

To what purpose, April, do you return again?

Beauty is not enough.

You can no longer quiet me with the redness

Of little leaves opening stickily.

I know what I know. 

 Pulitzer Prize winning poet Leonora Speyer (1872-1956) wrote April on the Battlefield shortly after the end of WWI:

April now walks the fields again,
Trailing her leaves
And holding all her buds against her heart:
Wrapt in her clouds and mists
She walks,
Groping her way among the graves of men.

 

And I love this one by contemporary poet Kim Addonizio (b. 1954)  

Watching that frenzy of insects above the bush of white flowers,   

bush I see everywhere on hill after hill, all I can think of   

is how terrifying spring is, in its tireless, mindless replications.   

Everywhere emergence: seed case, chrysalis, uterus, endless manufacturing.

 

I don't know exactly why April gets the greatest share of melancholy. Poems set in December can be wistful, looking backwards, and September has its share of the end of summer and the coming of winter. But a month which should be about showers and flowers and longen to goon on pilgrimages instead inspires a lot of brilliant writers to look out their windows at the gray rain and ponder mortality.

 I wonder if, in the country, it's an historic echo of great trauma of the Civil War, which began April 12, 1861 and ended April 9 1865. Lincoln's assassination only five days later plunged the northern states into mourning, while the south reeled from destruction and humiliation. So many families on either side must have been painfully reminded of their losses each April.

I'm not sure where I'm going with this essay, except perhaps to remind everyone it's okay to feel sad even when the flowers are sprouting and the flowers unfolding in the trees. And also to encourage you to click on the links and read the poems here in whole. 

 Dear readers, what are the parts of spring that delight you, and what aspects of the season makes you, perhaps, a little melancholy?