Double header: Rhys Bowen's and Hallie Ephron's BOOK LAUNCHES!

TODAY is the book launch for both Hallie and Rhys! 

Lady Georgie goes to Kenya in Rhys’s Love and Death Among the Cheetahs.

Emily Harlow goes to the storage unit in Hallie's Careful What You Wish For. 

So as we both prepared to hit the road and sign a zillion books we took a moment to have a telephone chats and compare notes:

HALLIE EPHRON: Love and Death Among the Cheetahs—great title, and quite a departure for Lady Georgie, isn’t it?

RHYS BOWEN: This is book thirteen and in the Royal Spyness series I wanted Lady Georgie to have an exciting honeymoon somewhere. So I put it to my fans, where should she go? Suggestions ranged from Minneapolis to India. 

I decided that Kenya would be a great setting. I’ve always been fascinated by the “Happy Valley” set, and I thought, wouldn’t it be nice if Georgie, who is the most naïve of people, finds herself among these aristocrats who live the most dissolute lifestyle. That set all had farm properties in Kenya and lots of Kikuyu tribesmen working for them. The way the British spoke about the natives was so offensive, even toning it down I had to put in a forward apologizing and explaining.

HALLIE: So Georgie goes there on her honeymoon?”

RHYS: Georgie can’t believe her luck, that Darcy is taking her to Kenya on honeymoon. But as soon as she gets there she realizes he may have had an ulterior motive. He might be on some kind of undercover assignment. 

Georgie’s lived a very sheltered life, and at the start of the series she doesn’t have much self confidence. In this book she’s starting to feel her value as an equal. At the end of the book she doesn’t wait to consult anybody, she makes a decision that shows that she has guts.

HALLIE: This novel really emphasizes the whole British class differences that you like to feature, doesn’t it?

RHYS: It does. This is aristocrats behaving badly! One of the reasons I write the series is to satirize the British class system. 

(We’re talking on the phone and Rhys’s husband chimes in from the other room, “Nothing wrong with the British class system!”). Sorry. He’s a left-over from the glory days of British aristocrats!

But let’s talk about Careful What You Wish For.  (I love your titles, by the way, because they say suspense and creepy from the outset!).  Your novel is scary in part because the setting is so unexotic. 

HALLIE: Unexotic in the extreme! I try to write books with situations that seem utterly believable. Yes, this could happen to me, I want the reader to think. And shudder. 

My new book’s setting is more Minneapolis than Kenya--a Boston suburb that feels an awful lot like where I actually live. And “Minneapolis” can be pretty scary.

Though we don’t have ‘class’ differences the way the Brits do, we certainly have economic differences that are just as telling. The action takes places in two ordinary houses, one over-the-top mansion, and a storage unit. What professional organizer Emily Harlow is hired to sort out in that storage unit drives the story. Stuff my husband would die for: old books, prints, doorknobs.

Like me, professional organizer, Emily Harlow, is married to a packrat. She’s come to terms with it and knows he’s unlikely to change.

RHYS: The person I’m married to saves everything because we might need it some day. You’re married to the person who’s still looking for that wonderful bargain or that special thing at garage sales and always brings home stuff you don’t need.

Did you find writing a professional organizer made you more conscious of your own organization. Did you find yourself folding your socks?

HALLIE: I did. My socks. My T-shirts. My underwear. And it is very pleasing to open that drawer and find all my things neatly rolled and standing at attention. Not so much fun, putting the laundry away. 

RHYS: It hasn’t spread to this house yet. Probably never will. Do you find when you’re writing you take on the characteristics you’re writing about?

HALLIE: I don’t think so. But I test the believability of whatever I’m having the character do. I don’t become them, but I do try them on. Don’t you do that?

RHYS: Sometimes I even get involved in their lives. For example if I’m writing a scene in the middle of winter, I feel really cold. Even if it’s summer. There are times when I’ve snapped at John and then realized I’m not angry at him, it’s Molly Murphy who’s angry with Daniel.

HALLIE: When we started talking I was thinking how different our books are. You write wonderful, tongue-in-cheek, British flavored historical mysteries. I write domestic suspense set in any-suburb USA. 

But this time out I realize we’re both writing about marriage, and the kinds of compromises and tradeoffs that ensue. 

RHYS: You’re right. It’s interesting that settings can be so different but human problems and dilemmas have always been so much the same. So wishing you every success with the new book, that has already garnered such great reviews. I’ll raise a glass to you at my own launch party tonight at Book Passage in Corte Madera and look forward to seeing some friendly faces as I set out around the country this week.

HALLIE: Toasting you back! And hoping to see some friendly faces from Jungle Red at my book launch events: 

Wednesday August 7 @7PM at Brookline Booksmith in conversation with professional organizer Kathy Vines

and
Thursday August 8 at RJ Julia @7PM in conversation with Lucy Burdette.

Where to find us... 

Rhys’s schedule 

Hallie’s schedule 

Read excerpts from CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR

Read Chapter 1

Read Chapter 2
Read Chapter 3

Read an excerpt from LOVE AND DEATH AMONG THE CHEETAHS

Read Chapter 1 

Talking about fictional couples whose differences were a driving force in the story, what books, TV shows, movies come to mind? Rhett and Scarlet. Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy. Jim and Pam. And...

Rhys returning to Roots

RHYS BOWEN : I've just started on my 14th book in the Royal Spyness series. Finally I'm able to set a book in Cornwall. I've been wanting to for ages as I spend part of every summer there and it is a part of England that has great childhood memories too. John's sister married into one of the old Cornish families. His cousin has the title and stately home. Tony inherited the manor house (which isn't too shabby either) so every summer I play at being lady of the manor.

I'm finally putting all of this into a book. The adorable Cornish people who call everyone 'my lovey'. Cornish pasties. Clotted cream. Smugglers. So much good stuff for Georgie to experience.  And as well as this I am making the book a homage to Daphne Du Maurier's REBECCA.  I've always adored that book--the great brooding atmosphere, the clever twists that punch the reader in the gut.
And having decided to do this, guess what? I learn that Netflix is going to be doing a Rebecca series. Perfect timing!  I've called it THE LAST MRS. SUMMERS.

Of course, being a Royal Spyness book, mine won't be all dark and brooding, but I'm hoping for some good twists of my own. Here is a snippet of a scene near the beginning.

“This can’t be right,” Belinda said. “I don’t remember this at all.” She slowed the car to a crawl. “Oh, look. An answer to prayers, darling. There’s someone to ask. Be an angel and find out, will you?”,

I tied a scarf around my head and stepped out into the full force of the gale. A man was leaning on a gate, watching us.  He didn’t seem to mind getting wet at all. I went over to him.

“Excuse me, but do you know a house called White Sails?”

“Ooo arr,” he said, nodding with enthusiasm. He was an older man with a weathered face and a mouth missing several teeth. He was wearing an old sack over his shoulders and a shapeless faded hat on his head. “Fish!”

“No, I don’t want fish. I want directions to a house called White Sails.” I tried not to sound too exasperated.

“That’s right. Err wants fish.” He had a really strong burr to his accent and he was grinning at me. Clearly only the village idiot would be out in rain like this.

“White sails” I said again, trying to be patient. “It’s a house on the coast near here. Could you tell us how to get there?”

He was eyeing me up and down as if I was a creature from a distant planet. “Round little rumps,” he said with great enthusiasm.

“Well, really.” I stalked back to the car.

“Disgusting old man.” I slammed the car door behind me. “He was leering at me and then he said I had round little rumps. The nerve of it.”

Belinda looked at me and then suddenly started laughing.

“It’s not funny. You might not mind having men comment on your shape but I certainly do. Especially when I’m cold, wet and hungry.”

“He was telling us the way, darling. I’ve remembered now. The headland is called Little Rumps. We’re on the right track.”

“Little Rumps,” I muttered. “What a stupid name for a headland.  Camels and Splatt and now Little Rumps. This really is a very silly place!”

If you love Poldark or Doc Martin then this will be for you. 

And next Tuesday, August 6, is the release date for the new Georgie book, called LOVE AND DEATH AMONG THE CHEETAHS. I'll be heading out on tour to lots of hot places. I hope to see some of you along the way! (There are giveaways right now on my Facebook page, www.facebook.com/rhysbowenauthor)

Kim Heniadis is the WINNER of THE MURDER LIST! Email Hank at hryan at whdh dot com with your snail mail address!

Are we Like Our Characters? A Jungle Red Survey

>> AND THE WINNERS of BLUFF  from Saturday are: Lynn from TX, and Mary C. email your address to Hryan@whdh.com ! YAY! <<


RHYS BOWEN: Whenever I am interviewed I'm always asked if my protagonists are based on anyone--especially me. I'm sure the rest of the Reds have experienced the same thing. And I always answer that I wanted Molly Murphy to have my strong sense of justice, inability to shut up when she should stay silent. She's not always wise when she barges forward. A little like me, I have to confess. For example: I was in a supermarket parking lot before Christmas when a man came toward me. He was skinny with long stringy hair and he was holding a Big Gulp in one hand. "Can you give me some money for food?" he asked.  "No, I'm sorry. I can't," I replied. "Then I'll just take your purse," he said. I was holding my keys in my right hand. I stepped up, in his face, and pointed my keys at him. "I'd like to see you try," I said in my menacing voice.
He backed away. "I could," he said. "I could take your purse." And then he ran.  I was so pleased with myself. I knew now that if I was in real danger I could go for a man's eyes.  But was I wise?  It was daylight. And it was a store parking lot.  Molly Murphy is a lot like that.

This was the first sketch of Lady Georgie, by the artist who does all my covers. She looks a lot more poised and glamorous than me, doesn't she? And other thing. She's a twenty-something royal. When I started the series I just wanted a naive, innocent character who is trying to  survive on her own in a difficult world. She is royal, but penniless, with nowhere really to call home. Then I discovered that she has a tendency to become clumsy when she's under stress. And embarrassing things happen to her. Who could that be like? Uh--me? Remember that scene in the first book when she is modeling an outfit for a rich client and she puts two legs into one half of a culotte? Yes. That happened to me. It ended my very brief modeling career.
So since then poor Georgie has had to suffer more and more with embarrassing incidents that her creator has actually endured. She's terrified of knocking something over at Buckingham Palace. When I did a tour of the palace a few years ago I kept looking at priceless antiques and thinking, "Do not go anywhere near that!"

You'd think that confident, successful older woman would never have embarrassing moments, wouldn't you? Well, I was writing at my desk when I looked at the time and realized I was running late for an ortho appointment on my knee. And I was wearing jeans. I rushed upstairs, grabbed a dress from the closet and put it on. Then I drove to the ortho office. I was standing in line, in a crowded office, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. "I don't know if I should mention this," the woman behind me whispered, "but you have your dress on inside out."
Oh, the mortification!
The trouble is that things like this happen to me on a regular basis. In a hotel room, washing my hair before a car comes for me to take me to a signing, AND I put the body lotion on my hair instead of the conditioner. Do you know how long it takes to get body lotion out of your hair?
So poor Georgie. Any time one of these things happens to me I think, AHA. Now she's going to suffer too.
But at least it makes her real and identifiable. One of the nicest things ever said to me was a fan who wrote, "I've just seen your picture and until then I thought you were the same age as Georgie!"
Of course I wanted to write back saying, "What do you mean? We're almost the same age. I've just been out in the sun more than she has."
But all the same, I was pleased.

So dear Reds: have your characters acquired any of your traits? Did you model any of them on you? Confession time.

LUCY BURDETTE: I've had three main protagonists, Cassie the golfer, Rebecca the psychologist, and Hayley Snow, food critic. Cassie, of course, had the athletic talent that I yearned for. The psychologist and I had lots in common--our therapy practices in New Haven, good girlfriends, love of good food, interest in what makes people tick. Hayley and I both adore Key West, though I'm not inclined to live on a houseboat (I get easily seasick!) She loves to eat as I do, and has surrounded herself with good friends and pets. However, two ways in which I'm different from all three--if I stumbled over a clue or a body, I'd turn it over to the police instantly. I'm a chicken. (And wow, kudos to you Rhys for scaring that guy off!) And I have a much happier relationship/marriage--though hopefully Hayley is headed that way too...

JENN MCKINLAY: Yikes! If I'm ever in another bar fight, I want you to have my back, Rhys! As to your question, with seven series in various genres, I can honestly say I don't think any of my characters are much like me. They may have bits and pieces. My temper crops up in my sidekicks, my love of  pastries pops up in most every book, and the book lover in me oozes out in several of the series but overall my characters walk fully formed into my head, their own unique beings. Rather like my children, actually, I'm just the birth giver.

HALLIE EPHRON: I DO think most of my characters are like me. From the 90-year-old woman in THERE WAS AN OLD WOMAN to the pregnant 30-something in NEVER TELL A LIE. Just at different points in my life, and imagining different circumstances. My new book CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR is about a professional organizer--something which I could never be. Never never never in a million years. I organized my sock drawer and then gave up. But I SO get why someone would.

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: Yikes, Rhys! Superhero. (How did you feel afterward?) Anyway, I've spent years denying that Charlotte McNally is me--of course she is. Kind of.  But she's not only a better driver--because she's younger, and grew up at a different time than I did, she's more confident.  Jane Ryland--no,  She's a reporter like I am, but she's 33 now, and I was 33 long ago, and that's a different 33. Mercer Hennessey? Not me at all, except for the analytical thinking.  Ashlyn Bryant? Sure--the part that can see a different side of every story. And Rachel North in the upcoming The Murder List? I'll adore to hear what you all think.
But bottom line I think there's got to be some of each of us in every character. Because  they come from us.

RHYS: That is such an astute comment, Hank. Of course our characters often react as we would because they come from our heads.

DEBORAH CROMBIE: Rhys! You are always so poised! I never would think of you as clumsy or awkward, but I love hearing how Georgie has evolved. Isn't it interesting how our protagonists--and our perception of our protagonists--changes over time? I know in the very beginning I thought that Duncan was like me in many ways. He's a little introspective but has good people skills. He likes to think before he acts,  he's not quick to form opinions or pass judgement. Gemma, on the other hand, I set out to make very different from me in personality. She's more confident, has no trouble speaking up for herself. She's very outgoing, less analytical, and is very quick to connect with people but also to pass judgement, perhaps prematurely. Over the series, however, I think they both have just become themselves, with their own very distinct histories and backgrounds that help form who they are. I certainly never think about either Melody or Doug being anything like me, although I'm sure they are in some ways. As Hank so wisely says, all of our characters (even the bad ones) have something of us in them or we couldn't write them.

So, fellow writers out there: are your characters like you? Have they taken on your traits as you write? And readers--as you read our books do you find yourself thinking, "Yes, I can see Hank saying that."

Rhys celebrates pub day of FOUR FUNERALS AND MAYBE A WEDDING.

RHYS BOWEN: When you read this I'll be in the air. Not levitating with excitement because my new book has been published, but because I'll be flying between Phoenix and Boston on a leg of my book tour. I'm really looking forward to this part of the tour because it has become a Jungle Red Event.

I'll be meeting up with Hank, Hallie and Roberta (who also has a new book out this week) at the Brookline Booksmith bookstore where we'll have a fun and funny discussion. Then tomorrow on to Madison CT and the RJ Julia bookstore where Hallie, Roberta and I will have more witty and wonderful things to say (we hope! It might depend how much alcohol was imbibed the night before).

I'm so delighted to be sharing part of my booktour with friends because usually they are lonely travels, sometimes quite stressful. I remember all the times I sat at an airport staring at the board announcing the flight had been delayed, knowing that I was due in a city several hours away to give a talk at 7 p.m.  Or I ran into traffic and sat in the taxi, knowing I was going to be late. There was the time I was due to be picked up by a car in San Diego and taken to Orange County, at noon.  At 12:15 I called them. "That car was cancelled," they said and couldn't tell me by whom.
I'm standing outside the hotel and need to get to Orange County, I shouted into the phone. You have to get here right away.
They tell me they don't have another car for half an hour. It arrives and then we are stuck in traffic. My 2 p.m. event ends up with a 4 p.m. arrival, and, miraculously many of the people have stayed, bless their hearts.

Bumpy monsoon skies ahead!

Before I was sent on tour I always pictured them as glamorous events. One flew into a city, a big black limo whisked one away to a luxury hotel where one ordered room service, went to speak, came back to dine. Yes, all of those things are true, but often there is just enough time to change before an event, and one returns at 9:30 feeling too tired to eat anything. Many meals are skipped. Those lovely rooms with antiques in them are only used for a few hours before a 5:am car shows up the next morning.

A couple of hotel memories: the first time I stayed at the Hotel ZaZa in Houston. It's very boutiquey and artsy. I was welcomed by a young man who personally escorted me to the Splendida Suite. He opened double doors and there was a full size glass dining table with chandelier over it, then a giant curved sofa in front of a TV. Asian antiques everywhere.

 Then through a bathroom to a bedroom.
This hotel specializes in art photographs. I went to take a shower and there, in the bathroom, was a giant photo of an Afghan tribesman--staring at me.  Do I wear a burka in the shower I wonder?

And this was the photograph in the loo!

Another time I flew into Denver with snow piled six feet high around me. I was driven to sign at various stores, then dropped at a hotel at 2:30 with the promise my escort would pick me up again at 5. I hadn't eaten since six that morning. "Where's the coffee shop?" I ask at the desk. "It closed at 2," I am told. And no room service. I stare out at a vast expanse of snow. Any restaurants within walking distance? I ask. She shakes her head. Not really. Then you need to call me a cab. I need something to eat.  Finally she takes pity. We have a bus, she says. And she is the driver.
So we set out, in this 20 seater bus, cruising through the snow drifts until I spot GOLDEN ARCHES.
And we drive through the drive-through in a 20 seater bus.

This is the glamorous life of the book tour!
And this week I look forward to seeing friends in Boston, Madison CT, Ann Arbor, Houston, and various stores around Northern California. The whole tour is on my website www.rhysbowen.com

FOUR FUNERALS AND MAYBE A WEDDING is the 12th in the Royal Spyness series. And if you're wondering if Lady Georgie finally gets married.... well, you'll just have to read the book!
But I will give a signed copy to one of today's commenters.

What We're writing--Rhys on Dialog (or is it dialogue?)

RHYS BOWEN: At the moment you are reading this I'll be heading to the airport on my way to the Bouchercon mystery convention where I'm looking forward to seeing fellow Reds Hank, Debs and Susan. I'm on a panel on Saturday with Hank and Deborah--it's about our tales from the road: mishaps, misadventures and outright fun during our book tours and speeches. I hope there are going to be some stunning reveals. I know I have plenty of good stories. I may share some with you when it's my next turn to host JRW.

But in the meantime I'm juggling two books: I have finished the first draft of the next Georgie Book, called ON HER MAJESTY'S FRIGHTFULLY SECRET SERVICE, I've started on the final polish, and I'm just starting to write the next Molly book, called THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PAST. This is a much more somber affair so I'm having to juggle the two a little and switch moods between jolly and depressing!

I've been reading a lot of books lately and one thing that strikes me about beginning writers is that they don't know how to handle dialog.(or is it dialogue? I spend my time writing half in British English and half in American English, hence perpetually confused!)

 When people start to talk we have one line of speech after another, like staccato bullets. In real life people don't speak like that. They speak in broken sentences, they gesture, their body language matches their mood, outside things happen like planes flying over, dogs rushing in. AND we need to be reminded where we are. If the dialog scene takes place on a train station we need to hear an announcement or toot of a train whistle to remind us.

I've been told that my dialog is one of the things readers enjoy most about my books, so I thought I'd share a scene in which we have action, dialog, character and setting all playing a part: This is from the Georgie book I am working on. We are in Stresa, Italy, on Lake Maggiori:

            As I approached the villa I spotted a group of people, sitting on a terrace beneath an arbor of wisteria. I felt suddenly shy and awkward. Why had I not asked the driver to take me to the villa? I must look pathetic, staggering up the drive carrying my own suitcase and dressed in my unfashionable tweed suit. And what if the letter still hadn’t arrived and here I was with my suitcase?  Had the queen actually suggested that I join the house party, or merely that I should be welcomed for a drink if I showed up? Why on earth hadn’t I left the suitcase at Belinda’s house and pretended I had just dropped by to pay my respects? Then, when they suggested I should stay I could have acted as if I was surprised and they would have sent someone to pick up my belongings. But now I was committed. I couldn’t retreat without being noticed. It was only a matter of time before one of them looked up and…

            I was startled by a great scream. “Georgie!”

            I was even more startled to see that the scream came from my mother. She had risen to her feet and was running toward me, her arms open. “Georgie, my darling!” she exclaimed in that voice that had filled London theaters. “What a lovely, lovely surprise. I had no idea you were coming to join us. Why didn’t somebody tell me?”

            She flung her arms around me , something she was not in the habit of doing. Then she turned back to the others. “Which of you arranged to bring my daughter to me? Was it you, Max, who suggested it? You knew I was pining for her, didn’t you?”

            I had prudently put down the suitcase before she attacked me. Now she took my hand and dragged me forward. “Everybody, this is my darling child, Georgie, whom I haven’t seen for ages and ages. And I had no idea she was coming to join us. ” She gazed at me adoringly. “And now you’re here. It seems like a miracle.”

            I noticed she had failed to mention that she had bumped into a few days ago and at that time there had been no talk of inviting me to join her. Nor had she seemed overjoyed to see me. As I smiled back at her I wondered what she was up to.

            Several other members of the party had also risen to their feet as she led me up steps to the arbor. Among them I recognized Miss Cami-Knickers herself. She looked older, perfectly groomed, incredibly chic as she stepped down from the terrace and approached me.

            “Georgiana. How delightful to see you again after all this time. I was so pleased to receive a note from the queen herself suggesting that you join our party.”

            I shook the hand that was offered. “I do hope this has not inconvenienced you in any way, Camilla,” I said. “When I told her majesty that I’d be staying nearby I really had no idea she’d invite me to be part of your house party. But she was insistent that I pay my respects to my cousin, the Prince of Wales.”

            “But not at all,” Camilla laughed. I remembered she had always had a horsy sort of laugh. Her horsy looks had definitely been improved with impeccable grooming and expensive clothes but the laugh was unchanged. “Actually we’re horribly short on women at the party, so you are a godsend at evening up the numbers.  Come and meet my husband and the other guests.”

            I followed her up to the terrace where several men were now standing to greet me. One of them I recognized immediately as Paolo, Belinda’s former love. I saw from his face that he also remembered me but I also saw the warning sign flash in his eyes. “Pretend you don’t know me,” could not have been more clear if he had shouted the words.

            “My husband Paolo, Count of Marola and Martini,” she said proudly.

            “My dear Lady Georgiana, you are most welcome, especially since my wife tells me you and she were old friends from your school days.” He took my hand and kissed it.

            “How do you do, Count,” I said, inclining my head formally.  “But please let us dispense with formality. Why don’t you call me Georgie?”

            ‘Georgie. How charming.” He smiled. I had forgotten how incredibly handsome he was. I could see why Belinda had been quite smitten at the time.

            Camilla took my arm and moved me on. “And of course you already know Herr von Strohheim?”

            My mother’s beau Max clicked his heels and said, “Georgie. I am pleased to see you again,” in his stilted, staccato English. At least it was better than when he first met my mother and spoke only occasional monosyllables.

“Max, how are you?” I said, shaking his hand. He too looked handsome in a blonde and Germanic way and I was reminded of my encounter on the train with….

            “And this is Count Rudolf von Rosskopf,” Camilla said, and I found myself face to face with my would-be seducer.

            He too took my hand and drew it to his lips. “We meet again, Lady Georgiana,” he said. “What a delightful surprise. And I had no idea that we would run into each other again so soon. It must be fate, drawing us together.” He looked rather pleased with himself and his eyes flirted with me.

            “Behave yourself, Rudi,” my mother snapped. “This is my young daughter, you know.”

            “Not too young,” Rudi said. “Ripe and ready for adventure, I think.”

RHYS: I rather fear that seduction will be the least of Georgie's worries as the story progresses!

So do share: what do you look for in good dialog?

What we're writing: Rhys reveals.

!RHYS BOWEN: Since the other Reds have opted out of confessing what they are actually writing this week, I'll remedy that. I've been writing hard to get a first draft done of next year's Royal Spyness book. Working title (which I think they like so it will stick) is ON HER MAJESTY'S FRIGHTFULLY SECRET SERVICE.

It's the first book that involves Georgie in real espionage. And it takes place in Stresa, Italy, whence I have just returned from rigorous research. Yes, we writers suffer for our craft! So much of the plot takes place in the grounds of a villa, so it was imperative that I saw the layout of various villas around the lake, took the ferries up and down the lake, and of course had coffee in the little central square.

I picked Stresa because an important conference was held there in 1935. Statesmen from UK, Italy and France met to discuss how to combat the growing Nazi threat. That was too good not to put into a book. I can't tell you much about the book without giving away the plot, but here is the scene when she arrives at the Villa Fiori for a house party that turns out to be anything but innocent:

            It was time to become the queen’s spy. I caught the ferry back to Stresa, much to Belinda’s disappointment, packed what I hoped was suitable clothing into my suitcase (or at least the best I had) and set off for the Villa Fiori. I had waited until after luncheon because I was sure it was not good form to arrive too early.  It was a warm day and I felt hot and sweaty by the time I had carried that suitcase down the hill and along the lake shore. Outside the gates I paused, trying to smooth down my hair that had been wind-swept, catching my breath and taking in the scene before me.  Beyond the gates the land rose steadily. The driveway was lined with palm trees and ended in a forecourt in which a fountain was playing. The villa itself was what one expects an Italian palace to look like—pale lemon yellow with white shutters on either side of arched windows. There were statues decorating the roof and at the front was a flight of steps leading up to a marble balustrade. All very grand! I swallowed hard and took a deep breath before I dared to push open those gates.

Gardeners were still working as I walked up the drive, trying to look as if my suitcase was lighter than it really felt. One of the gardeners had removed his shirt and was bending to plant a border around a fountain. When he stood up again I couldn’t help noticing that his physique was… well, admirable. I couldn’t see his face because he was wearing a broad brimmed hat, but I sensed him watching me as I continued up the drive. Again I allowed myself a smirk. So Italian men found me attractive. Then I reprimanded myself. I was about to become a married woman. Surely I shouldn’t be noticing the chest muscles of gardeners?

            As I approached the villa I spotted a group of people, sitting on a terrace beneath an arbor of  wisteria. I felt suddenly shy and awkward. I must look pathetic, staggering up the drive carrying my own suitcase and dressed in my unfashionable tweed suit. And what if the letter still hadn’t arrived and here I was with my suitcase?  Had the queen actually suggested that I join the house party, or merely that I should be welcomed for a drink if I showed up? Why on earth hadn’t I left the suitcase at Belinda’s house and pretended I had just dropped by to pay my respects? Then, when they suggested I should stay I could have acted surprised and they would have sent someone to pick up my belongings. But now I was committed. I couldn’t retreat without being noticed. It was only a matter of time before one of them looked up and…

            I was startled by a great scream. “Georgie!”

            I was even more startled to see that the scream came from my mother. She had risen to her feet and was running toward me, her arms open. “Georgie, my darling!” she exclaimed in that voice that had filled London theaters. “What a lovely, lovely surprise. I had no idea you were coming to join us. Why didn’t somebody tell me?”

            She flung her arms around me , something she was not in the habit of doing. Then she turned back to the others. “Which of you arranged to bring my daughter to me? Was it you, Max, who suggested it? You knew I was pining for her, didn’t you?”

            I had prudently put down the suitcase before she attacked me. Now she took my hand and dragged me forward. “Everybody, this is my darling child, Georgie, whom I haven’t seen for ages and ages. And I had no idea she was coming to join us. ” She gazed at me adoringly. “And now you’re here. It seems like a miracle.”

            I noticed she had failed to mention that she had bumped into a few days ago and at that time there had been no talk of inviting me to join her. Nor had she seemed overjoyed to see me. As I smiled back at her I wondered what she was up to.

And you'll never guess who the other guests at the house party are...So a question to you other writers out there. Do you have a place in mind when a story comes to you, or do you have the plot idea and then look for a place that is perfect? In this case the place was important because Lake Maggiore is half in Switzerland and half in Italy and that is crucial to the story. And the lake is ringed with lovely villas just like Villa Fiori.

And to the readers: do you prefer reading about exotic settings or are you more comfortable with something closer to home?.

Rhys on Research

RHYS BOWEN: Last week Karen gave you her report on our workshop in Tuscany. At the end of the ten days we went our separate ways and I headed north to Lake Maggiore to do research for my next Royal Spyness book.  I thought you might be interested to see what such research entails. When I’ve told people that I was heading to Nice or to Italy to do research, I see them grinning and thinking, “Right. Research. I don’t think.”

                Actually I do work quite hard, albeit in lovely surroundings. When I was writing Naughty in Nice I spent several days in the main library looking through old postcards and maps. After all streets and their names are always being changed in France. Princess Grace Boulevard would not have existed at the time I write about. I spent a fabulous morning at the hotel Negresco, wandering hallways and peering around corners, with the blessing of the management who suddenly decided I should be given free rein when I produced a card that said I was a bestselling author. I took lots of pictures and wandered streets (and ate and drank local food and wine, of course. All part of the research of bringing a place to life!)

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                This time in Stresa I was most interested in finding a villa and gardens that matched the setting I wanted for Lady Georgie’s stay. I was fascinated by some of the villas that must once have been grand and have now been allowed to fall into ruins. (Tempted to buy one and restore it!) But I did see one lovely villa that would fit the bill and then there were gardens at Villa Tarranto and on the Isola Bella, both of which are incorporated into my Villa Gloriosa.

Also I was interested in the details of the conference that took place in Stresa in 1935 between Italy, France and England, deciding what to do about the Nazi threat. Where was it held? Who was there? I always like to bring real history into my stories and this conference was a gift—right time, right place. Then there was the train and steamer up to the Swiss part of the lake, as that also has to be part of my story. Where might there have been a famous clinic in 1935? And of course the Grand Hotel where Ernest Hemmingway stayed when he wrote “A Farewell to Arms”. Surely there was a way to bring that into the story!

                Above all I try to get the feel of a place: when I sit in the little square and drink coffee what do I see, hear, smell? It is deliciously cool in the shade of the sycamore trees. Sound echoes from the surrounding alleyways. Italians in conversation always sound as if they are about to break into a fight. And then there is the weather: morning clouds draped over the mountains. Wisps of cloud attached to the peaks like strands of sheep’s wool caught on a fence. The far side of the lake swallowed into blackness during a storm. Weather is always important in a story so I take pictures and make notes of every weather change.

                When I write a book my aim is to take my readers there, not tell them about it. If I’ve experienced it then hopefully they will took.  Watch out for the book next year. It’s called “On Her Majesty’s Frightfully Secret Service.”

RHYS CELEBRATES THE RELEASE OF MALICE AT THE PALACE

RHYS: Today I’m celebrating the publication of my ninth

Royal Spyness mystery called MALICE AT THE PALACE.  It seems almost no time at all since I wrote that first book, HER ROYAL SPYNESS and we first met the penniless and slightly clueless Lady Georgie, thirty-fifth in line to the throne, and the dashing but dangerous Darcy O’Mara. Their relationship has had its ups and downs since then. Georgie has solved a few mysteries. But this one was particularly fun to write because it featured a real royal wedding, and a real royal scandal.

            Georgie is asked to move into Kensington Palace where Princess Marina of Greece and Denmark is being housed before her wedding to Prince George, the Duke of Kent, youngest son of King George and Queen Mary. Georgie is supposed to show Marina the ropes of life in England.

But of course Georgie knows very few ropes herself, having lived most of her life in a Scottish castle and not having the money to mingle with the beautiful people. All is going smoothly until a body turns up under the haunted clock-tower at Kensington Palace. And it’s the body of a young woman who was a former mistress of the groom. It’s up to Georgie to avert a royal scandal that might stop the wedding!

            How dare I write this, you may ask? I do dare because so much of it is based on well documented fact. King George’s youngest son led a very wild life.  In fact his behavior was so scandalous that his papers were sealed after his death. What we do know is that his lovers were reputed to include many celebrities: Noel Coward and Barbara Cartland among others.  Party girl Kiki Preston was one of his mistresses. She was known as ‘the girl with the silver syringe’ because of her cocaine habit. She eventually committed suicide. The prince and Princess Marina seemed genuinely fond of each other and he might have mended his ways and settled down but he died in a plane crash in WWII.

            So you can imagine I had fun doing my research in Kensington Palace. I had the bones of my story in place but what I had not counted on was the number of ghosts that haunt the palace. The young woman in white who is supposed to be Princess Sophia, daughter of George the first. Kept shut away in a palace she fell in love with an equerry and produced a child. The child was taken from her and her ghost walks the halls looking for it or her lover.  Then there is the wild boy Peter, found in a forest in Germany and brought over for the king’s amusement. He appears from time to time, leaping out and laughing maniacally.

            You can certainly feel the coldness in some rooms and find yourself glancing over your shoulder on some staircases. I didn’t see a ghost personally, but I asked one of the guards if he’d ever seen one.  “Not here,” he said, “although I know those who have. But the house where I was living I went downstairs to turn off the TV, turned around, and there was a woman in black standing behind me. She said “once I was blind. Now I can see.”  I can’t tell you how fast I sprinted back up those stairs.”

            Do you believe in ghosts? I have to because I grew up in a haunted house. My brother and I slept alone on the top floor. I used to see a procession of hooded figures coming up the stairs.  Windows would blow open, letting in a howling gale. Mats would flap on the floors. I wondered if it was all my imagination and asked my brother, who was eight when we left that house, if he thought it was haunted.  “Of course it was,” he said easily.

So who needs to make things up when there are so many good stories in England, just waiting to be told.  Have you ever seen a ghost? Do you believe in them?  I will give away a signed copy of MALICE AT THE PALACE to my favorite comment of the day.

And all this week I’ll be on tour. Scottsdale, Houston, Naperville IN, Dayton OH, Petaluma CA, Corte Madera CA.  If you’d like details check the appearances page of my website www.rhysbowen.com. I hope to see some of you along the way. And do come up and tell me you read Jungle Red Writers!