Life’s Playlist by Holly West

JENN McKINLAY: I love the cover of this book SO much! Yes, because I was a tween of the 80's and a total fan of the Go Go's. Heck, I wanted to be one of the Go Go's! Holly West is our guest today and she's talking about what transports us. Welcome, Holly.

Holly West: Many things have the power to transport us to other times and places. Scent, for example. One whiff of Polo by Ralph Lauren and I’m walking through my high school’s corridors, keeping an eye out for my latest crush (thankfully, Polo isn’t on trend these days so those whiffs are few and far between). 

Books and movies, too. The mere mention of Judy Blume or Laura Ingalls Wilder takes me back to my childhood bedroom, where I spent untold hours reading and re-reading books. And films like “Bob Roberts,” “Pulp Fiction,” and “The Crying Game” remind me of my twenties, when I was single and broke and spent every weekend in the bargain matinee at the Beverly Connection in Los Angeles.

But music, I’ve found, is the ultimate time machine. I’ve already dated myself, so I don’t mind telling you that I recently turned fifty. As part of the celebrations, I compiled a playlist of songs representing all of the seasons of my life. It was a long list, spanning not only the decades I’ve lived through myself but those of my grandparents and parents since their musical preferences comprised much of the soundtrack of my earliest years. I can’t listen to Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline, Loretta Lynn, or Hank Williams without thinking of my grandparents—they instilled in me an abiding love for twangy country music, as did my mother for the cheerful Broadway musicals of the 60s.

I loved music from an early age and dreamed of being a singer when I grew up (a dream I haven’t quite let go of, by the way). Friday nights were dedicated to the Donny & Marie Show, before I understood that Donny’s version of rock ‘n’ roll bore as little resemblance to the real thing as Marie’s rendition of country did. Still, I loved them. Next came the Bee Gees, Rick Springfield (oh, how I wanted to be Jessie’s girl), and Journey, all of whom I still love, followed by that vast swath of music we call “80s.”

My brother, who works in marketing and PR, told me that supermarkets play 80s music now because that’s the generation—my generation—that’s doing the shopping. And he’s right. I can’t go into Ralph’s without hearing Madonna, Duran Duran, the Go-Go’s or The Cure. There I am, standing in the checkout line, when Whitney Houston comes on the sound system singing “How Will I Know,” reminding me of my senior prom date, who, years later, came out to me at a Mexican restaurant in our hometown.

Not so long ago, supermarkets were playing Fleetwood Mac, Jackson Browne, and the Eagles—songs I knew, but were firmly classified as “before my time.” I suppose Rihanna, Lady Gaga, and Pitbull will sing the next wave of supermarket hits. Even, perhaps, cleaned up radio re-mixes by Post Malone or Cardi-B. That’s when I’ll know I’m really old.

On a side note, one of the best things about living in the digital age is having all the music we want at our fingertips. Kids today will never know the exhilaration—and sometimes, the heartbreak—of having a cassette recorder at the ready, waiting for a song to come on the radio and pressing record at just the right moment. In those days, every recording had Casey Kasem’s voice floating over the song’s opening bars (if you were quick enough to catch those opening bars at all).

Much like books, the music we embrace in our youth becomes an integral part of who we are. I keep semi-current with today’s music and enjoy much of it, but none of it will touch me the way that early music did. I’m no expert in these matters, but it seems that as we get older, we lose our tendency to internalize external things like music. We’re able to enjoy and appreciate it, but it doesn’t have the same impact. We’re older now, and mostly, wiser, with our hearts steeled against every sentimental love song.

Okay, so Lady Gaga’s and Bradley Cooper’s live performance of “Shallow” at the Grammy Awards touched me, but that’s something else entirely. Or maybe, it’s not. Maybe I’m not the hardened old lady I think I am after all.

What about you, Reds and Readers, what music transports you?

***

Holly West is the Anthony Award-nominated author of the Mistress of Fortune historical mystery series. Her debut, Mistress of Fortune, was nominated for the Left Coast Crime Rosebud Award for Best First Novel. Her short fiction has appeared online and in numerous anthologies, and her latest story, “The Best Laid Plans,” appears in Florida Happens, the 2018 Bouchercon anthology. She’s also the editor of Murder-A-Go-Go’s, a crime fiction anthology inspired by the music of the Go-Go’s. Visit hollywest.com for more info.

Holiday Gifts for YOU!

JUNGLE RED WRITERS:  Holiday gifts for you!

 One, if you are rushing rushing rushing to do your holiday necessities, wouldn't it be nice to stop for five minutes, make a cup of tea, and read a short story? Yes, indeed. And to make that easier,here are some stories from the Reds!  

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: I had two this year, one in the Sherlock Holmes anthology called "The Adventure of the Dancing Women" (about which Criminal Element said: “A sleuth by the name of Annabelle Holmes works with an ex-soldier nicknamed Watson since, as Holmes charmingly explains, both names go hand in hand… it works with Ms. Ryan’s imaginative, steady hand. If you like Lucy Liu’s performance as Dr. Joan Watson on the TV show Elementary, then you will undoubtedly appreciate this mystery.”) Hurray!

 

And more about the Sherlock anthology from Hallie and Debs below. And another short story—completely different! From Lucy.

But the story I’ll share in full here is from the wonderful anthology called Malice Domestic: Murder Most Conventional. There's a snippet below, and then a link.

And your second holiday gift is at the bottom of this post. And since you love mysteries, I'm giving you one to solve. And, ho ho ho, there are prizes!

THE CLUE IN THE BLUE BOOTH

                by Hank Phillippi Ryan 

I could be sitting right next to you on the subway or standing behind you in the grocery store line or waiting for my latte while you get your tea. You’d never notice me, and that’s exactly how I like it.

My skill—for blending in and being ordinary—is the hallmark of my trade. The reason I get the big bucks. I’m so careful about my identity, I don’t even meet my clients, but simply leave that to “Thomas,” my colleague. That’s not his real name, of course. I call my security company Griffin and Co., even though there’s no one else, except for “Thomas,” in the co. It would be nice to have someone else, but right now we’re the tiniest bit strapped for cash.

The “big bucks” I referred to earlier was the tiniest bit sarcastic. But we’ll be fine, as long as nothing goes wrong.

I made a final adjustment to my black felt cloche as I walked closer to the massive convention center. My unremarkableness, I supposed, was the reason I was assigned to this ridiculous job.

Well, maybe not “ridiculous” so much as “waste of time,” I thought as I pushed through the heavy revolving doors. Nothing would go wrong, and it was my job to make sure that was true. If by some chance something did go wrong, it would be my job to assess, respond, subdue, and resolve. And then instantly, as always, blend back into the woodwork.

Pausing past the bank of revolving doors, I scanned the triple-tall skylighted entryway from left to right and then back again, calculating, knowing the first-response assessment often sets the stage for what’s to come. And then I almost burst out laughing.

There were no men here. And every woman looked exactly like me.

I touched the flowered silk scarf tied around my neck, and the strand of pearls underneath. It’s not usually necessary for me to go undercover to blend into a crowd, because my whole life is undercover. But coming here in costume had seemed prudent, and now, surveying the lobby, the line of registration desks, and the vast convention floor, it turned out my costume was not only prudent, but hilarious. It was like being in a massive hall of mirrors.

Blond wigs—or, on some, I supposed, real blond hair—scarves and pearls and twin-set cashmere sweaters, stockings, and sensible shoes. Plaid skirts. Some women carried magnifying glasses, and some, like me, wore little vintage hats tilted rakishly over one eye. A fluttering canvas banner suspended from the erector-set ceiling announced why we were all dressed that way, and why we were here—not exactly why I’m here, of course, but why the rest of them were here.

NANCY DREW CONVENTION, it trumpeted. They’d included a huge graphic portrayal of the iconic silhouette of the 1930s girl sleuth, all waved hair and cloche hat and pearls and cardigan.

Just like me.

Just like all the attendees, because all were requested to dress as Nancy Drew. Clearly, these women followed directions. The organizers had promised a big-time surprise guest speaker, and as of now, word hadn’t leaked about who that would be. Not even to me, which was somewhat unnerving. I don’t like surprises.

......Want to read the rest? Just click here. And as I said: there's a real clue in this story. If you find it--don't reveal what it is. Just put: "I found it!" in the comments, then message me via my website with the answer.(Http://www.HankPhillippiRyan.com and click on Contact. That comes directly to me!)

Are you savvy enough to discover it? If you are correct, I'll send you a great prize.

But wait—we have more fun reading for you!

HALLIE EPHRON: In a year when I did not publish a book (I have two next year), a proud moment was seeing my short story, “Understudy in Scarlet,” in  Echoes of Sherlock, a wonderful anthology of stories inspired by the Holmes canon, edited by Leslie S. Klinger and Laurie R. King. So thrilling to be in the same anthology with my fellow Reds, Hank and Deborah, not to mention writers like Meg Gardiner, William Kent Krueger, and Catriona McPherson. I floated for days when Kirkus singled out my “Understudy” as “a delight from beginning to end.” 

It’s the story of an actress who starred as Irene Adler 25 years ago in what has become a cult classic version of A Scandal in Bohemia. She answers a casting call, over the moon that she’s going to be able to reprise her role. Needless to say she’s in for a rude awakening that will put her in a murderous temper.

UNDERSTUDY IN SCARLET begins…

    It’s not an open casting call, Angela Cassano realizes as she takes in the emptiness of director Glenn Lancaster’s outer office. The gloomy space, on the second floor over storefronts on Santa Monica in Beverly Hills, has rough stucco walls painted off-white. The furnishings are chrome and ebony and black leather, and the stale air smells faintly of cigar. Her appointment was at two. At three she’s still waiting for Lancaster to emerge from his inner sanctum.

“They want you,” her agent had said when he called, sounding as surprised as she was that a remake of A Scandal in Bohemia was afoot, this time as a major motion picture. Same director, same actor as Sherlock Holmes, and they wanted her to read for the role she played twenty-five years ago: Irene Adler, the one woman who outsmarted the great detective. Was she interested? Of course she was. The only gig she’s got lined up is summer stock in Ojai playing Martha in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? But she’s also more than a bit wary. She and Lancaster didn’t part on the best of terms, not after she refused to sleep with him—something he seemed to think was his due for casting her in his movie. Bygones, she hopes. Because if he were holding a grudge, why would he be calling her agent?

…..Want to read more?  Here’s a link to the book—it’s wonderful! And you should also find Deborah Crombie’s wonderful “The Case of the Speckled Trout”--which introduces Holmes' goddaughter in a hilariously-voiced tale about a fish and a potential murder. What could go wrong?

DEBORAH CROMBIE: I had more fun writing this story! I was in a really stuck place in my novel, and this gave me a much needed break.

THE CASE OF THE SPECKLED TROUT begins...

My name is Sherry Watson. It’s a crap name, Sherry, I know. But what can you do? It’s not like I had a say in the matter. My parents, to give them credit, were trying to do the right thing—a sentimental gesture I wondered if they were sorry for after.

They named me after my godfather, who is—or was, before he vanished a year ago—a famous detective. All I have to say is it’s a good thing I wasn’t a boy, or I would really have something to be pissed off with him about. Actually, he’s responsible for a lot of things I should be pissed off about, my godfather, not the least of which was me standing in a freezing Scottish kitchen, up to my elbows in fish guts.

But wait, there’s more!

LUCY BURDETTE:  My first Key West story, THE ITINERARY, which was published in the MWA anthology edited by Nelson DeMille, is now available as a podcast! If you don't know about Great Jones Street, you should. It's a free app that contains tons of short stories in many genres--what fun!

The Itinerary (by Roberta Isleib) begins like this....

 

         Detective Jack Meigs knew he’d hate Key West the moment he was greeted off the plane by a taxi driver with a parrot on his shoulder. He hadn’t wanted to take a vacation at all, and he certainly hadn’t wanted to come to Florida. But his boss insisted he take time off and then his sister surprised him with a nonrefundable ticket:  He was screwed. The driver packed him into a cab that smelled like a zoo and lurched away from the curb. Then the bird let loose a stream of shit that splattered off his newspapered roost and onto Meigs’s polished black leather loafers. The cabbie hooted with laughter.

“That means good luck, man,” he said, gunning the motor and grinning like an ape in the rear view mirror. “Mango doesn’t do that for just anybody.”

The parrot screamed during the entire ten-minute ride to Meigs’s hotel and the driver never shut up either. Everyone connected with this damn town wanted to give you a travelogue. Hemingway got soused here after writing his obligatory daily pages of FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS; Truman played poker at this table with this or that visiting dignitary; Jimmy Buffet wrote “A Woman Goin’ Crazy on Caroline Street” based on one bad night in his own Margaritaville Bar.

What difference did all that history make when the place was currently overrun with fat, sun-crisped cruise ship escapees, homeless people in search of free booze and the endless summer, and weirdos and misfits of every description? Truly a police officer’s nightmare.

Want more? Here's the website: 

https://www.greatjonesstreet.press/

JUNGLE RED:  Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah and Happy Reading, everyone! And if you have a moment (sure….) tell us what you’re doing today.

And don’t forget to look for the clue in Hank’s story!