SUSAN ELIA MACNEAL: Hello Reds and lovely readers and happy holidays! So thrilled that not only has MRS. ROOSEVELT'S CONFIDANTE made the New York Times Bestseller list at #7, but also made the bestseller lists of USA Today, the Los Angeles Times, the Washington Post, and the San Francisco Chronicle. Out less than two months, it's already in its third printing!
To celebrate, I'm doing a MRS. ROOSEVELT'S CONFIDANTE giveaway, to three people who leave a comment. (Kiddo will choose.)
I'm also over the moon to announce that actress Daisy Ridley, who plays Rey in Star Wars VII: The Force Awakens, has bought the film/TV rights to the series! Fingers crossed and I think Ms. Ridley would make a fabulous Maggie Hope!
I'm also delighted to let you know that not only have I turned in THE QUEEN'S ACCOMPLICE (Maggie Hope #6) into copyediting, but the kind folks at Penguin Random House tell me that the pub date will be sometime in the fall of '16.
And the Big News is — I've just signed another contract with PRH, for a three-book Maggie Hope deal. Maggie's adventures will continue!
So, for the last year, I've been writing THE QUEEN'S ACCOMPLICE. I have to say it's the most technically difficult novel I've ever written, as well as the most fun. In it, Maggie teams up with her old friend Mark Stafford from MI-5 and also a new colleague, Detective Chief Inspector James Durgin from Scotland Yard.
The three of them work to solve the case of a serial killer dubbed by the press as "The Blackout Beast" — based on the real-life Blitz serial killer (they called the "sequential murderers" then) known as the Blackout Ripper.
I enjoyed (is that the right word?) learning more about forensic science for this novel, especially the history of fingerprinting. Must once again give a shout-out to the Forensics: Anatomy of Crime exhibit at the Wellcome Collection in London, as well as the accompanying book by Val McDermid.
Here are some of the things on my desk I've been using while writing THE QUEEN'S ACCOMPLICE. This is a notebook I received from Kiddo and Hubby last December, and those are the first notes I ever made on the novel.
And here's a Punch and Judy postcard I picked up in Covent Garden (the historic home of Punch and Judy) last year. The puppet show (and its inherent misogyny and violence) plays a major part in the novel.
I also used print-out of a vintage map of London, to plot the locations of the bodies found.
And here's a chart I made, to keep track of the Blackout Beast's victims. Yes, sometimes you have to get off the computer and write things out by hand. (And yes, I have terrible handwriting.)
I used a lot of books (as usual) for research. MAD BOY was something I just read for fun, but learned about a drug, "Calm Doggie," that was used to tranquilize dogs during the Blitz. According to the book, people took it as well. Just the sort of detail I love to thread in!
In THE QUEEN'S ACCOMPLICE, we also meet back up with ballerina Sarah Sanderson, now with SOE, and Hugh Thompson, Maggie's MI-5 (and romantic) partner — Hugh and Sarah are at Beaulieu, the SOE's "finishing school" in preparation for being dropped behind enemy lines in France.
And, of course — given the book's title — I did plentiful research on Queen Elizabeth, or, as we now think of her, the Queen Mum.
My publisher asked me not to blog from THE QUEEN'S ACCOMPLICE at this time, but I can't wait to share in the new year!
In the meantime, please enjoy this excerpt from MRS. ROOSEVELT'S CONFIDANTE:
The President’s private office was painted battleship gray and glossy white, softened by puddles of light from glowing green Tiffany lamps. Tall mahogany bookcases were crammed with models of ships. A massive oak desk stood in one corner, its blotter covered in stamps and collectors’ albums. Burning logs popped and crackled behind the grate of a marble fireplace, and a shabby Persian rug was spread in front. Layered on top was a lion-skin rug, head intact and fangs gleaming. “From Ethiopia’s Emperor Haile Selassie,” the First Lady explained. “We call him Leo the Lion.”
“The first warning shot against the Empire,” John muttered under his breath.
“The first warning shot against the Empire,” John muttered under his breath.
The President was already holding court, seated in a streamlined wheelchair made from a regular dining chair. He was in position behind a small brass cart, mixing drinks, Fala at his feet. Churchill, looking every inch the English bulldog, made his way around the room, hand extended, saying, “How-de-do? How-de-do?” Fala was busily inspecting the Prime Minister’s shoes and trousers, then sat back on his haunches as if to say, Yes, he passes my inspection.
“Welcome to Children’s Hour!” the President called to Mrs. Roosevelt’s small tour group as the P.M. stooped to rub Fala’s furry head. “It’s my tradition of having cocktails at the end of the day!” he explained. “And today I daresay you all deserve one.” He looked sideways at Churchill. “Or perhaps two.” The bar cart was crowded with different colored bottles of gin and French ver- mouth, Kentucky bourbon, Tennessee whiskey, rum, tonic, and various bitters. As the President took a sip from his glass, he closed his eyes in delight. “Oh, yummy—that’s good.”
Maggie took in the scene before her. She knew all too well that the Prime Minister’s usual drinks were sherry, whiskey, brandy, and champagne—and only rarely a Martini, but with no vermouth, only “a bow toward France.” As she saw the generous amount of vermouth Mr. Roosevelt poured into the jigger to mix with his gin and how graciously Mr. Churchill accepted the cocktail glass from the President’s hands, she realized for the first time exactly how much the Boss would sacrifice to get on with the American leader and how strong was the Franklin-Winston bonhomie.
John nodded in approval. “An Anglo-Saxon alliance, to meet the problems of the world. Well done.”
President Roosevelt flashed his thousand-watt toothy grin. “Forgive me if I don’t get up,” he joked, then wheeled himself over, Fala following with a wagging tail. “My adviser Harry Hopkins, you already know, of course,” he said, indicating a gaunt, chain-smoking man. “And this lovely lady is Grace Tully, my secretary—and Lorena Hickok, Eleanor’s friend. Oh, and let me introduce Frank Cole, my right-hand man.”
“Welcome to Children’s Hour!” the President called to Mrs. Roosevelt’s small tour group as the P.M. stooped to rub Fala’s furry head. “It’s my tradition of having cocktails at the end of the day!” he explained. “And today I daresay you all deserve one.” He looked sideways at Churchill. “Or perhaps two.” The bar cart was crowded with different colored bottles of gin and French ver- mouth, Kentucky bourbon, Tennessee whiskey, rum, tonic, and various bitters. As the President took a sip from his glass, he closed his eyes in delight. “Oh, yummy—that’s good.”
Maggie took in the scene before her. She knew all too well that the Prime Minister’s usual drinks were sherry, whiskey, brandy, and champagne—and only rarely a Martini, but with no vermouth, only “a bow toward France.” As she saw the generous amount of vermouth Mr. Roosevelt poured into the jigger to mix with his gin and how graciously Mr. Churchill accepted the cocktail glass from the President’s hands, she realized for the first time exactly how much the Boss would sacrifice to get on with the American leader and how strong was the Franklin-Winston bonhomie.
John nodded in approval. “An Anglo-Saxon alliance, to meet the problems of the world. Well done.”
President Roosevelt flashed his thousand-watt toothy grin. “Forgive me if I don’t get up,” he joked, then wheeled himself over, Fala following with a wagging tail. “My adviser Harry Hopkins, you already know, of course,” he said, indicating a gaunt, chain-smoking man. “And this lovely lady is Grace Tully, my secretary—and Lorena Hickok, Eleanor’s friend. Oh, and let me introduce Frank Cole, my right-hand man.”
Frank Cole was a thoroughly average-looking man with wide-set eyes behind heavy black-framed glasses and a rumpled suit that suggested moneyed eccentricity. Giving him a long look, Maggie realized there was something off: one of his eyes was a bright green, while the other was a true hazel. “Who’s Frank Cole?” she whispered to David when she could.
He sipped his Martini and nearly choked. “Heavy on the vermouth and—horrors—I believe a splash of Pernod.” He shook his head. “Frank Cole is the economic specialist for the State Department who then became a rather successful journalist. Outspoken supporter of the New Deal and the Roosevelts. And, from what I hear, FDR’s odd-job man.”
Maggie took a small sip of hers, which had two Spanish olives speared to a toothpick with tiny U.S. and U.K. flags. She peered at the fine print: made in japan. Oh, dear. “Odd-job man? What sorts of jobs?”
David shrugged. “How should I know?”
“But what about Mr. Hoover?” Maggie pressed as the First Lady pulled out a record and placed it on the phonograph.
“No, Cole has nothing to do with Hoover. He answers directly to the President.”
As the record crackled and then began, Marian Anderson’s rich contralto voice filled the room, singing Handel’s “And He Shall Feed His Flock.” More guests arrived—including General Sir Alan Brooke, Chief of the Imperial General Staff—and the President exclaimed, “Oh, how perfectly grand!”
As Fala shook hands with all of them on command, a waiter wheeled in a silver trolley, piled high with caviar and toast points, a carved roasted turkey, smoked clams, sliced green apples, and cheeses.
He sipped his Martini and nearly choked. “Heavy on the vermouth and—horrors—I believe a splash of Pernod.” He shook his head. “Frank Cole is the economic specialist for the State Department who then became a rather successful journalist. Outspoken supporter of the New Deal and the Roosevelts. And, from what I hear, FDR’s odd-job man.”
Maggie took a small sip of hers, which had two Spanish olives speared to a toothpick with tiny U.S. and U.K. flags. She peered at the fine print: made in japan. Oh, dear. “Odd-job man? What sorts of jobs?”
David shrugged. “How should I know?”
“But what about Mr. Hoover?” Maggie pressed as the First Lady pulled out a record and placed it on the phonograph.
“No, Cole has nothing to do with Hoover. He answers directly to the President.”
As the record crackled and then began, Marian Anderson’s rich contralto voice filled the room, singing Handel’s “And He Shall Feed His Flock.” More guests arrived—including General Sir Alan Brooke, Chief of the Imperial General Staff—and the President exclaimed, “Oh, how perfectly grand!”
As Fala shook hands with all of them on command, a waiter wheeled in a silver trolley, piled high with caviar and toast points, a carved roasted turkey, smoked clams, sliced green apples, and cheeses.
Mr. Roosevelt looked around the room and, spying empty glasses, called out, “How about a little dividend? Another sippy?” He began to make more cocktails, this time something called a Haitian Libation, made with rum, orange juice, egg whites, and brown sugar. “Ah, the sweet music of the shaker!” he called. “Who’d like to try one?”
Despite the President’s questionable cocktails, Maggie did find herself liking him. It was impossible not to admire his unflagging energy, his irrepressible confidence, his effervescent charm. As more drinks were poured and plates were passed, she seized the chance to look around his private office. The room was large, but still warm and homey, stuffed full of clutter: shelves of gold-tooled leather-bound books, stamp collecting albums, intricate ship models, and silver-framed photographs of the children at various ages. A black-and-white Ansel Adams photograph of the Rocky Mountains hung in a place of prominence.
David and John perched next to Maggie with their cocktail glasses. David bent over to whisper, “Do you think they’re going to serve us hot dogs for dinner? I hear that’s what they offered the King and Queen when they visited.”
“Hot dogs are a picnic food,” Maggie replied sotto voce. “Not likely to be served at the White House in December. Although we can try to get you one from a street vendor.”
“I’d like that,” David returned courageously. “I’ve never had one, you know.”
As Roosevelt and Churchill chatted and laughed, John murmured, “What kind of accent does the President have?”
“Hudson Valley Lockjaw—Dutchess County via Amster- dam,” Maggie whispered back. “With just a faint tinge of Old Money.”
Despite the President’s questionable cocktails, Maggie did find herself liking him. It was impossible not to admire his unflagging energy, his irrepressible confidence, his effervescent charm. As more drinks were poured and plates were passed, she seized the chance to look around his private office. The room was large, but still warm and homey, stuffed full of clutter: shelves of gold-tooled leather-bound books, stamp collecting albums, intricate ship models, and silver-framed photographs of the children at various ages. A black-and-white Ansel Adams photograph of the Rocky Mountains hung in a place of prominence.
David and John perched next to Maggie with their cocktail glasses. David bent over to whisper, “Do you think they’re going to serve us hot dogs for dinner? I hear that’s what they offered the King and Queen when they visited.”
“Hot dogs are a picnic food,” Maggie replied sotto voce. “Not likely to be served at the White House in December. Although we can try to get you one from a street vendor.”
“I’d like that,” David returned courageously. “I’ve never had one, you know.”
As Roosevelt and Churchill chatted and laughed, John murmured, “What kind of accent does the President have?”
“Hudson Valley Lockjaw—Dutchess County via Amster- dam,” Maggie whispered back. “With just a faint tinge of Old Money.”
“Old . . . by American standards.” John took a sip of his Martini and nearly choked.
“There, there.” Maggie patted his back. “I know it’s a lot to get used to—landing in a foreign country.” John was silent. “Well, isn’t it?” Maggie wasn’t about to give up.
“Rather heavy on the vermouth” was all he would say.
“So, Mr. Cole,” said the Prime Minister, standing nearby. “What is it exactly that you do for the President?”
“This and that,” Cole replied. “I’m a newspaper columnist by trade, but I do enjoy being Man Friday.”
Churchill studied him. Then he raised his glass. “If that’s your story, Mr. Cole, then stick to it.”
“There, there.” Maggie patted his back. “I know it’s a lot to get used to—landing in a foreign country.” John was silent. “Well, isn’t it?” Maggie wasn’t about to give up.
“Rather heavy on the vermouth” was all he would say.
“So, Mr. Cole,” said the Prime Minister, standing nearby. “What is it exactly that you do for the President?”
“This and that,” Cole replied. “I’m a newspaper columnist by trade, but I do enjoy being Man Friday.”
Churchill studied him. Then he raised his glass. “If that’s your story, Mr. Cole, then stick to it.”
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