Home Fires - a guest blog by Priscilla Paton

JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: I don't know about you, dear readers, but despite the fact I've lived in the same house for almost thirty years, the real estate conditions over the past three years consumes a HUGE portion of my brain. My sister is a Realtor in Northern Virginia whose business exploded during the lockdown, and who had the unhappy duty to tell her clients they were only getting the house of their dreams if they waived inspection and bid $50,000+ over the asking price.

My daughter, meanwhile, struggled for over six months to find a starter home here in Maine, despite having an excellent credit score and a sizable down payment. Meanwhile, empty-nesting friends are faced with the conundrum that "downsizing" may mean paying more and moving further away from the city.

So you can imagine how my eyes lit up when I saw Priscilla Paton's third Twin Cities Mystery was all about the - can we say? - murderously crazy real estate situation in the US. Upscale gentrification, displaced renters, ordinary folks priced out of the market and investors desperate to make a buck: WHEN THE HOUSE BURNS hits them all. (And you have a chance to win a free copy!)

 

Wise relatives of mine winter in Florida and summer in Minnesota. Their summer condo near a Minneapolis lake has the interior of Rapunzel’s Tower with rounded concrete walls and tapestry-style hangings. The design, however, was not based on any castle; the building had been that very Midwest piece of architecture, a grain silo. Photos in the building foyer depict three cylindrical sileage containers rising to the clouds, but when people began outnumbering cows in the neighborhood, the giant cranes arrived.

Silos transmogrified into luxury condos—I had to include that in When the House Burns, my latest mystery with sex, death, and real estate seasoned by a soupçon of arson. The opening scenes feature my recurring detectives, Deb Metzger (un-homed and hunting for a place to live) and Erik Jansson, at a house-for-sale examining the corpse of a murdered realtor. Throughout the story, the characters, including the resident of the silo-condo, must confront what makes a place a home because what they’ve called home is threatened or already lost.

Homeless encampments have been making the news for years, and I had driven by several. One along Minneapolis’ Hiawatha Avenue had over seventy tents, and the occupants were mostly Native Americans. If you’ve been involved with housing issues, you know the solution is complex, involving availability of affordable units, local covenants, unemployment, and mental health and addiction.  As I’m writing this, the Minneapolis StarTribune’s lead story reports that the “unsheltered die at three times the rate of other residents.” 

 

Shelter is necessary—a home is more. At one point in When The House Burns, divorced Erik Jansson, moping in what was supposed to be a temporary residence, remembers an embroidered sampler that hung in his childhood home, In this house, Love is the Host, Love is the Child, Love is the Guest. 

 

 

Love goes wrong, and homes come with dirty laundry, maintenance snafus, family friction, and a cable/streaming bill. In 2019, I’d started writing my third mystery on a different topic. Then in 2020 the Covid Pandemic shutdown forced everyone to stay home, that is, everyone who had one, and the pandemic exacerbated the chronic problem of homelessness. The epigraph for When The House Burns comes from Robert Frost’s “The Death of the Hired Man.” The farm husband states one definition of home: “when you have to go there, / They have to take you in.” The wife counters, “I should have called it / Something you somehow haven’t to deserve.” Two months into the stay-at-home order, the basement of our houses—I’d complained of a stench—was declared toxic. We had to leave pronto and fortunately had a place to go. Meanwhile, young relations in the Twin Cities eager for a first home bid on several houses to be always outbid. I couldn’t help but write about housing and home.

Also, fiction often takes its dark inspirations from broken homes and families. Violence is “domestic” when it begins at home.

Not that my thinking stayed profound. I asked friends to complete the bromide, “Home is where. . . .” The results:

Home is where there’s cat hair.

Home is where the books are piled. 

Home is where the freezer’s stocked with ice cream.

Home is where I control the thermostat (my contribution since I’m cold if it’s below 72 degrees).

Home is where the kitchen gadgets live. (At a holiday rental, my husband lamented not having his Therma pen.)

As for my mystery, after the writing, the editing, and the printing, after I received author copies, I figured out what it was about (should have known in writing the synopsis), beyond greed, lust, betrayal, and other yummy stuff. It was about what, or who, gives a home its heart.

 

Hint: if not immediately found elsewhere, check the kitchen. The first time my husband-to-be met my mother, we walked in on her making doughnuts, the old-fashioned cake kind. The first batch was draining on paper grocery bags. He took one and sat by the woodstove to make himself right at home.

Here’s a link to a recipe like my mother’s, down to draining the doughnuts on brown paper.

 

 

 JULIA: What's your definition of "Home," dear readers? And do you have any house-hunting horror stories to share? One lucky commentor will win a FREE copy of WHEN THE HOUSE BURNS!

When death comes home, is nowhere safe? The quest for love and home becomes deadly when Detectives Erik Jansson and Deb Metzger search for the killer of an adulterous real estate agent.

A volatile real estate market, unrest in a homeless encampment, jealousies among would-be lovers, a case of arson—these circumstances thwart G-Met detectives Erik Jansson and Deb Metzger as they investigate the murder of an adulterous woman. The victim’s estranged husband has holes in his alibi. A property developer grieves too much over the death of the woman while his wife shuts him out. The developer’s assistant resents his boss and suspects that the developer was not only involved with the victim but is being scammed by the arsonist. A sexy young widow, friend of the victim, has past traumas triggered by the case and turns to the developer for protection. A homeless man stalked the dead woman and now stalks the young widow. All may hold secrets about the past burning of an apartment complex and the man who died there.

Before the clues come together, Erik Jansson is trapped in an abandoned house as Deb Metzger hunts for a sharpshooter at a remote construction site. The case will burn down around them unless they can scheme their way out of lethal surroundings.

 
You can find out more about Priscilla, and read excerpts from her books, at her website. You can also friend her on Facebook, share recommendations on Goodreads, and follow her on Twitter as @priscilla_paton

Learning to drum: Lisa Braxton's THE TALKING DRUM

HALLIE EPHRON: Several years ago, I rode home from Boston on the subway with a young woman who'd taken my class at Grub Street. The class was on writing suspense, and the woman was Lisa Braxton. Recently Lisa reached out to me and I had the great pleasure of reading her just published first novel, and it's my great pleasure to introduce her to you.

The book, The Talking Drum, feels so current though it's set in 1971, another period of ferment and turmoil. It weaves together the stories of three young couples living in a rapidly gentrifying neighborhood, with race and gender politics and economic inequality taking center stage.

One of the characters is a young man from Senegal, a brilliant drummer whose dream is to start a drumming institute.  

The book takes readers into another world, seen through the lens of three young couples. I especally loved the sections about drumming, which are written  with such authority--written more like a musician than a journalist--that I had to ask her how she'd become so knowledgable.

LISA BRAXTON: When I began writing The Talking Drum, I was well into my 40s and assumed that my music lessons were long over, tucked away in the distant memory of my youth. I didn’t imagine that I would resume musical training and it would be on an instrument that I’d been under the assumption was simple to play and didn’t require much technique to perform on well. Five minutes into my first lesson I realized how wrong I was. As I was developing the character Omar, an immigrant from West Africa trained at drumming at his father’s knee to be the drumming ambassador of the world, I felt I should take hand drumming lessons to lend authenticity to the character.

I enrolled in an adult education “Hand Drumming for Beginners” class. I wanted to know the feel of a drum on my palms when played, and the emotional places where the drum could take me. During eight sessions on the goblet-shaped djembe, I learned how to execute Base–Tone–Slap, the three main strokes used to play most large hand drums.

I was curious to learn more and signed up for a drumming circle led by master drummer Mamady Keita. Born in a small village in northeast Guinea, Mamady is an international performer, recording artist and workshop leader. He brought his three-hour intensive to a city hall chambers on Boston’s North Shore.

Grand as it was, the room was a tight squeeze for the 75-plus students who showed up, drums in tow, ready to learn new rhythms from a man they revered. I was surrounded by drumming zealots. The man seated next to me kept grumbling, “People who aren’t serious about this should stay home!” I wondered if he’d figured me out, that I was an imposter, not a real drummer. I could feel my shoulders slumping in an effort to make myself invisible.

Mamady was small in stature, but commanding. The room went silent as he played a combination of rhythms. He beckoned us to repeat them. On the beat, he slowly strutted around the large circle, inspecting our hands closely, nodding and smiling slightly when he was pleased, narrowing his eyes when a tone or slap was made without confidence.

As I feared, Mamady detected my lack of mastery of the instrument. As he was making his rounds, he paused in front of me, raised a hand to get everyone to stop playing and worked with me one-on-one. After he tried again and again to set me on the right path I finally confessed in a weak voice: “I’m not a real drummer. I’m a writer wanting to learn to play to create a drummer for my novel.”

In that moment, the tension left Mamady’s face. I decompressed. He gave me a smile and continued circling the room. When he came back to me, he paused again. Was I hitting the drum wrong? Apparently not. He gave me a flirtatious wink and kept going. 

HALLIE: As Lisa was telling me about drumming, how simple it seems until you try to do it and the nuance that can be wrung from it in the hands of a master, I though it's not unlike writing. Seems easy until you try.

I heartily recommend The Talking Drum. It's a story for our times, one that leaves the reader with a feeling of hope. Which brings me to ask the question: Have you had experienced a musical instrument (in the hands of a master musician) speaking to you?

Lisa will be here today, and I hope she'll tell us more about her title and perhaps the theme of her book, "the talking drum."

Lisa and I talked about her book at a virtual book launch event with Belmont Books. 

ABOUT Lisa Braxton:
Lisa Braxton is an essayist, short story writer, and novelist. She earned her MFA in creative writing from Southern New Hampshire University, her Master of Science in Journalism Broadcasting from Northwestern University and her Bachelor of Arts in Mass Media from Hampton University. Her debut novel, The Talking Drum, is forthcoming from Inanna Publications in spring 2020. She is a fellow of the Kimbilio Fiction Writers Program and a book reviewer for 2040 Review. Her stories and essays have appeared in Vermont Literary Review, Black Lives Have Always Mattered, Chicken Soup for the Soul and The Book of Hope. She received Honorable Mention in Writer’s Digest magazine’s 84th and 86th annual writing contests in the inspirational essay category.