Moments In Crime

No, you can't make me go...I won't, I won't...

light, fluffy flurries, mild, temps minus 2 Now, this is just slightly embarrassing. As you see, I'm baaaack. After saying the big, 'farewell' yesterday and sweeping out of the Moments In Crime room - I was told that, well, actually, you'll be blogging until Saturday. Which, I have to say, is wonderful. I'm really enjoying this...it's just a little embarrassing after saying 'goodbye.' Anyway, here I am. Just snuck out of bed. have been awake for a while staring out the window at the huge, soft snow flakes drifting down. It's mesmerizing. Also staring at the swarthy man stripped to his tee-shirt on the roof next door, shovelling. Honestly, there's more pedestrian traffic on the third floor than on the main floor of this home in Quebec City. He's strapped onto ropes and harnasses (which, honestly, old adds to the attraction) and is working so hard he must have over heated. His name is Emile and when he isn't shoveling snow to support his poor mother and sick sister, he writes poetry and is working on his first novel. OK, that last part I made up. Really, what an amazing city that is so gorgeous. As though the snow, the cobble-stoned narrow streets, the old walls and homes, the kind and generous people, the French food weren't enough now old Quebec City offers near naked men on roofs to wake up to. I LOVE this city. Michael and I had such fun yesterday. Great breakfast with Peter, who managed to score us rare and precious tickets to THE social event of the Quebec Winter Carvival - the brunch at the Chateau Frontenac on the day of the finals of the canoe race across the St. Lawrence. All the dignitaries in town sip champagne, eat gourmet food and watch the race below. That's next Sunday, Feb 8th. From breakfast we headed off to hear Prof David Hackett Fischer, whose latest book is called Champlain's Dream. We were told about his lecture (he's visiting from Brandeis Univ. outside Boston) and it fit so well with what I'm researching we decided to drop by. We arrived to discover it was in a board room of the Quebec Ministere des Affaires Internationale. they asked, at the door, who we were and whether we had an invitation. We looked at each other and a very kind woman piped up, 'Oh, did Matthieu invite you?' 'Oui', we said. They showed us in and sat us near the head of the table. then a bunch of Quebec officials arrived, including the Minister of International Affairs himself. They were all very charming, though perplexed by the strangers, in jeans, at the head of the table. This was a private talk given by the Professor. To Quebec government officials. And us. But once again, Quebec showed her tolerance. There was no way those people didn't know we didn't really belong. But they let us stay and treated us as honoured guests. We chatted afterward then left...walked home via rue St jean outside the gates, and went into Le Moisin - a fabulous Epicerie...cheeses, baguette, pates and terrines - fruits and vegetables, spices and jams...cookies and pastries. Home. We bought the shop out and staggered home. We hadn't had anything to eat since breakfast so we lit the fire, got into our sweats, fried up the hot water bottle (which later sprang a leak all over Michael - disaster!) and had a lunch/dinner of pears and apples, baguette and cheeses and terrines. This morning, while I stared at heroic Emile on the roof across the way, we heard the garbage truck...our garbage bag was sitting in the kitchen, waiting. Michael, dear one, raced down, threw on his boots and a coat and ran outside, chasing the garbage truck down the block - finally catching it at the Entrecote St jean. Another mad Anglo - in middle of winter, wearing boots, a night dress and running through the snow streets of quebec with a bag of garbage. Now, I wonder why they want to separate? Quebec Winter Carnival started last night. Went to bed with fireworks bursting over the roofs. Heaven. OK, now I really am going...but you can follow the rest of our adventures on my blog, through the website: www.louisepenny.com Keep well and warm. And thank you.

Thank you for the company

flurries, milder, temps minus 8 We had such fun yesterday. spent a few hours at the marvelous Literary and Historical Society on St Stanislas. It's the oldest museum in North America and is actually, now this terrific library. Not very big, but with a balcony lined with old books, and books below, and a leather sofa and chairs and a wooden table (when I arrived there were fine china cups from a previous meeting). Toured and talked with Patrick Donovan. Then Michael took me to the Saint Amour restaurant on Sainte-Ursule for lunch. It's considered by many the best restaurant in Quebec City, which is saying something. We celebrated making the 'list'. We were clearly English, though speaking French to the servers and maitre d' - but English to each other. And the people, where possible, spoke English to us. As a courtesy. The English was often halting, but it was like being offered something small but precious...tiny sweet bits of our own language, and their respect of it. How lovely. Then we wandered through the narrow, snow clogged streets, slipping and sliding, since we were either climbing up a steep hill or skidding down. The city has soddered hand rails to the sides of buildings so we can steady ourselves. When I got home there were tons of messages from friends and former colleages and Jacquie Czernin, who hosts the local CBC afternoon show, invited me on to talk about the New York Times bestseller list! Such kindness and support. And now it's Friday. We're off for breakfast with Peter Black. He's a producer and journalist at the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation...he knows everyone and everything. Except plumbing. We were supposed to meet yesterday but in the storm somehow a pipe burst at his home...and he (poor delusional man) thought that was more important. But we're meeting in 10 minutes for breakfast and a catch-up, and I get to run some murderous thoughts by him. Then at noon there's a lecture by the author of Champlain's Dream - he's from Brandeis University and won the Pulitzer with his last book. Really looking forward to that! then home and a weekend of relaxing. My time here at Moments in Crime is over and I really want to thank you for keeping Michael and me company here in Quebec City. and for all your kindness over the great news. I also want to mention I have a website... www.louisepenny.com and a daily blog, which you can get to through the site...so you can continue to follow the adventures. Be well - and thank you.

New York Times Bestseller!!!

Cloudy, flurries, temps minus 5 Yippeee!!!! Hope Dellon, my editor and Andrew Martin, the publisher of St. Martin's Minotaur called late yesterday afternoon with the news I've dreamed of all my adult life...for 30 years or more. 'You've made the New York Times Bestseller list with A Rule Against Murder!' I started trembling then and I don't think I've stopped. However, the shrieking has died down...a little. This is what's called the 'extended' list - which is for the top 35 hardcovers, and it's the list for February 8th (don't know wny it's a week ahead, but I suppose that's what makes the New York Times great...they see the future. Perhaps they're also built on a cliff). A Rule Against Murder is number 33. We did it. You and I. I wrote it, you read it and told your friends - and over the course of the 4 seasons we've built the series. I am so grateful to you. Thank you, thank you, thank you for giving me this amazing gift. I will never, ever forget sitting in the living room in Quebec City, in front of the fireplace, clutching the hot water bottle (I think we've bonded) - and getting the call. Frankly at first I was confused about why both Hope and Andy would call. I figured it was either wonderfully good news, or horrific news. Since they probably wouldn't be the ones to tell me someone I love died or Michael or I have cancer I figured the news couldn't really be all that bad. Could it? Andy even asked, 'Do you know why both of us would be calling?' I think he presumed I knew it would be the Times - but since it has never happened to me before, it was so far from my expectations I honestly had no idea. And then they told me. I might have shattered their ear drums with the scream. I know Michael came running. Wow. Thank you for this. I really hope you feel the thrill too. You're as much a part of this as me. All my life I'll remember this moment. On other news - the storm hit! Michael and I were exploring the Plains of Abraham, where the definitive battle between the French and English forces happened in September 1759 - and suddenly it started snowing...then more, then more. We ducked into the Cafe Krieghoff on rue Cartier for lunch and by the time we came out the blizzard was in full flight. What distinguishes blizzards from smily heavy snow is the wind. The snow was hurtling sideways, and getting into our eyes, ears, under our collars. We have about 2 kilometers to walk...so, heads down, off we went. It's actually quite exciting. We were well dressed and there was never any fear we were in danger. then arrived home to this terrific news. Now need to rush out - breakfast, then I have a 10am meeting at the Literary and Historical society, just up the street on Saint-Stanislas to talk to Patrick Donovan about where the skeletons are buried. I love research. Did I mention about the New York Times??? I feel like running through the streets laughing - proving to Quebec once and for all that Anglos really are nuts. Happy - but nuts.

Storm Watch

overcast, temps minus 15 It went down to minus 30 yesterday! As you can see, we Canadians are fixated by the weather - or at least this Canadian is. There's a saying that history is geography spread over time. I believe it. Especially here in Quebec City where geography determined the founding of the settlement (its where the St Lawrence narrows and so is easy to defend - and its on top of a cliff so you can see down the river for miles...you can see the future.) But geography also decides climate. And as Canadians we are defined by our climate. Oddly, not at all limited by it. We can grow everything we need, as long as we don't need bananas. And the snow actually makes getting around easy. We have ice highways and ice bridges. Some communities that are extremely difficult to get to any other time of the year become accessible in winter - by dog sled or now, by skidoo. Indeed, the unofficial anthem of Quebec is by a wonderful, wizened Quebec chansonier/poet named Gilles Vigneualt...he wrote...Mon Payes C'est l'Hiver. My Country is Winter. I think about these things today in this glorious city of Quebec because there're weather warnings out all over the place. For a country and city so steeped in weather this is unusual. Storms come and go all the time almost without comment. So this might be a doozy (a word Monsieur Vigneault has yet to use in any of his poems). Mon payes n'est pas un floozy - Elle est vraiment un doozy. This poetry stuff ain't so hard. I'll let you know tomorrow about the blizzard. It's supposed to hit today. We'll be inside our old stone home, reading page proofs for the next book and research books on Champlain for another, sitting in front of the fire with the ubiquitous hot water bottles and coffee. In a home that's seen worse than whatever is coming our way. Be well - I'll talk to you tomorrow, mon ami.

Lost and Found

clear, cold, windy, minus a gazillion Hard to believe just a week ago I was in a cotton sundress in Phoenix, Arizona. On one side of me a honey-mooning couple were doing 'something' in the hotel pool and on the other side of me the inauguration of Barack Obama on television. I chose to watch the television. It was 85 degrees and I was there to launch my latest book, A RULE AGAINST MURDER. Now, here I am in Quebec City - minus 25 - and clutching a hotwater bottle like a babe. Indeed, there seems something biblical about this. Definitely Old Testament. However, in the midst of the bitter cold, we found Paradise. Well, steak frites. And, in case any doubt remained, profiteroles. We had dinner last night half a block up the street (Saint-Stanislas) at the Entrecote St Jean - on rue Saint-Jean. Outside the mullioned and frosty windows people hurried by and Christmas lights gleamed on the snow, and inside we were toasty and warm eating steak and french fries and ice cream filled pastry drizzled with warm, dark chocolate. The only thing that might have marred the picture was us...our clothes were fine, but our heads lacked a certain je ne sais quoi. It's the bane of a Quebec winter. Hat Head. And static electricity. As soon as we get indoors and take off our tuques (hats) our hair stands straight up, as though we've had a fright or a particularly good idea. But then comes the fall. At some point during dinner some of the static electricity leaves (I wonder where it goes) and the hair falls. But not all of it. The hair that does subside then clings to whatever skin is exposed. Neck, cheek, ears. Half the hair plastered to the face, the other half reaching for the stars. A Quebec winter is a test of true love. I had the great pleasure of sitting across from Michael and his grey Mohawk. And he got to see me - little Richard Simmons. Then, when we touch each other we run the risk of electrocution. If we could just harnass this energy we could run the whole city. Had a wonderful day yesterday...read 100 pages of proofs for the next book and set up an appointment with someone who knows all the history of this place where the body will be found. That will be on Thursday. I still need to find someone who can tell me about Samuel de Champlain. The founder and father of Quebec, 400 years ago. Whose body has never been found. They've somehow lost the founder. And it remains the biggest mystery in Quebec history. I'm here to solve it. And eat croissants. Wish me luck.

The Cure for Despair

Clear, Cold, temps minus 20 My husband Michael and I are in Quebec City, for a month, researching an upcoming book. As soon as I finish this blog we're heading into the bitter cold day to bag our breakfast...which should be a bowl of cafe au lait, a croissant - or maybe a pastry. the local boulangerie (bakery) offers the regular eclairs and mille feuilles and tartes - but they also offer specific Quebec treats like an almond confection called a Jesuit and a wonder, warm sugar and cinnamon pastry called a Pets des Soeurs. A Nun's Fart, if you can believe it. Nothing like going up to a very nice young woman at the counter and asking for a fart, please. Maybe I'll stick to french toast. My plan in the upcoming book is to have my detective, Chief Inspector Armand Gamache of the Surete du Quebec, visiting his mentor, now long retired and living in this magnificent city. It will take place a Quebec Winter Carnival - which is about to start. Of course, a murder happens. I visited the site of the murder yesterday - but won't say where. Now, in order to write the book Michael and I needed to come here, around the Winter Carnival, to really experience the old city. So we've rented a stone house within the walls. Quebec is a fortified city - the only walled city in North America. And the home we've rented was built in 1752. It's stunning. Made of fieldstone with narrow, steep, worn stairs and beams and exposed stone - and almost no heat. Dear Lord, it's cold! We wear top to bottom long underwear - long johns as we call them - though Michael announced he had the whole team - long johns, long peters, long marks...everybody. We fill hot water bottles and hug them to us. And wrap ourselves in blankets before the fireplace. One morning I'm sure I'll be breaking ice in the sink or toilet. Still, it's worth it. Not only is the home gorgeous, but the city almost makes me weep it's so beautiful. Gracious and solid and comfortable. From our gabled, beamed master bedroom at the top of the house we see out over the metal roofs and chimnies. Wisps of snow swirl off the corners of buildings like ghosts. This is a city haunted by memory. The provincial motto is: Je Me Souviens. I remember. And what they remember is being conquored, by the English - four years after this home was built. They've never forgotten the loss. As a novelist it's a perfect theme to explore. The place of memory in who we are, how we perceive the world - and how we hold on to anger. Would violence end if there was no such thing as memory? Must go - we're off to a bakery on rue St-Jean - half a block up from this home...where we get our coffees and breakfast. I despair for my waistline - though honestly with all this long underwear I think that's a battle long lost. I'm a conquored person. Besides, how much despair can a person feel when surrounded by Jesuits and les Pets Des Soeurs?

A deeply cracked Easter

Sunny, cool, highs minus 1

Ring the bells that still can ring,
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything,
That’s how the light gets in.
Leonard Cohen

How can you not love a guy who wrote that?  Actually I used that quote in A Fatal Grace – as part of Clara’s art. 
Happy Easter.
I once said that on air at CBC radio and a listener called in to lambast me and point out that this is not a happy day.  Christ was crucified on this day.  I was about 21 years old and deeply sorry I’d offended someone.  So I apologized on air.  It was only decades later I realized I didn’t agree with that assessment.  I’m not actually a Christian – though I have a certain belief.  But I believe what makes this holiday so special isn’t that Christ was crucified, but that he rose.
This is a holiday of hope.  And how can that not be happy?
Indeed, it’s such fun to be speaking to you on this day.  This is exactly the time when my latest book, The Cruelest Month, is set.  Over the Easter holiday.  In my book it’s a very late Easter – being a movable feast I did my goddess thing and moved it to late April.  So that the spring bulbs would just be poking out.  A promise.  But fragile, vulnerable.  And in the book we find out what happens to anything that exposes itself too much and too soon. 
In the words of Shakespeare’s Wolsley’s Farewell (a wonderful speech):  A killing frost.  It nips his bud.  And then he falls, as I do.
In the book there’s a killing frost – both physically and psychologically.  Aimed at a villager in Three Pines, but also at Chief Inspector Gamache.
Spring is an unsettling season – and Easter an unsettling time.  As one of the characters says – not everything is meant to come back to life.  Not everything that rises up is a miracle. 
I hope you enjoy reading The Cruelest Month as much as I enjoyed writing it.  It’s about murder, of course, being a murder mystery.  But at its heart it’s about second chances, and redemption. 
Thanks for reading this past week.  I’ve had such fun blogging on Moments in Crime.  Here’s to our flaws, and the hope that springs from them. 

The swift uplifting rush

Sunny, cold, highs minus 6

I give you this
One thought to keep
I am with you still
I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow
I am the diamond glints on snow
I am the sunlight on ripened grain
I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken
In the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight
I am the soft stars
That shine at night

Do not think of me as gone
I am with you still
In each new dawn
Native American prayer

Michael and I had lunch today with our very good friends and neighbours Guy and Nicole.  One week ago they lost their only child, Martin. 
Guy, and therefore Martin, has Abenaki blood in him.  We gave them this prayer, framed.  Nicole says she walks, morning, noon and night.  And sometimes, deep in the woods, she screams. 
Guy just cries. 
I am the swift, uplifting rush
I wish we could be that for them.  But all we can do is sit with them and trust that one day the howl will die down to a moan in the marrow. 
Be well.  I’ll talk to you tomorrow. 

Darn, more reasons for gratitude

Snow (about a foot!), mild, highs minus 3

At fifteen life had taught me undeniably that surrender, in its place, was as honourable as resistance, especially if one had no choice.
  Maya Angelou

Isn’t that a marvellous quote?  It reminds me of a prayer Michael and I say every day.  We hold hands across the breakfast table and say, ‘God, grant me the serenity, to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.’
If I could I’d pretend I wrote that but since I could never get away with it I might as well surrender to reality and admit it’s the serenity prayer.  After saying it Michael and I, still holding hands and our eyes closed (at least I presume his are closed) list all the things we’re grateful for.  Then we send out good energy into the world. 
Jeez, writing it down and reading it makes us seem quite flaky.  Oh well.  I suppose we are.  But we’re happy and content flakes, which makes our gratitude list annoyingly long.  Especially when we’re starving. 
Had three absolutely fabulous pieces of news yesterday.  People Magazine has a fantastic review of The Cruelest Month!!!  They gave it 3 ½ out of 4 stars and said it was ‘Impossible to put down.’
I’ll tell you, that is being laminated and going on the wall. 
As well,  reader named Joan in Chicago very kindly wrote to say that Marilyn Stasio has a mention of my books in her column this Sunday in the New York Times Review of Books.  Yay.
The other piece of wonderful news was that The Cruelest Month has been chosen by the publisher to the St. Martin’s Press READ IT FIRST program.  This is a terrific ‘club’ – so far 14,000 people have signed up to get advance chapters of new books put out by St. Martin’s.  That way you get to ‘test-drive’ books and decide if you want to buy them or take them out of the library.  How wonderful is that?
Had a quiet day at home yesterday – more or less snowed in.  Tony came to dig us out and within half an hour we were snowed in again.  It’s the very heavy spring snow – clinging to the trees.  It really is stunningly beautiful.   And another 8 inches fell overnight.   Not going on the gratitude list.
And we saw the very first cardinal at our bird feeder.  Never had one before.  Normally we get a dizzying array of what Michael called LBJs – Little Brown Jobs.  Spot the city folk.  Actually, they’re black-capped chickadees, sparrows, woodpeckers and blue jays.  And now a cardinal.  On the first day of spring.  It brought snow and good news. 
Spent the entire day by the fire writing.  Such fun to sit with Gamache and Myrna in her used bookstore, as she makes tea and cookies and they talk.  And he reads from a book that he’s known for years but has an unexpected connection to this murder case. 
A week ago I’d risen again at 3:30 to catch a flight – this time to Houston.  What a terrific city.  I absolutely loved it.  And my hotel room was enormous!  As you might have gathered, my surroundings are important to me.  Michael could be in a cave and not notice.  I’d notice. 
Spoke to the Neighborhood Library in Houston at noon, then did a talk/reading/signing at a wonderful mystery bookstore in Houston called Murder By the Book.  Lots of people out – great questions.  Very welcoming.  And an extremely impressive staff.  Makes a difference. 
Must run – the writing calls. 

Happy Spring!

It's snowing - you'd never know it was spring. Still, the days are getting longer and the snow is getting lighter as well.

Rainy, cold, highs minus 3

"... only he is an emancipated thinker who is not afraid to write foolish things."
Anton Chekhov

Well, I had the best time yesterday at the South Burlington Library.  No trouble finding the place.  The dreadful snow and sleet up here in Quebec turned into just good ‘ole spring rain in Vermont.  Stopped for gas at the Pinnacle Peddler in Richford, the scene of my humiliating attempt a few months ago to smuggle two Restoration Hardware lamps into Canada.   Won’t tell you where I tried to hide them.  Then it was off to Burlington.

Had an easy drive, thinking about the book I’m writing.  Gamache is walking down rue du Moulin with Myrna and they’re discussing a shocking scene both of them were involved in at the old Hadley House.  I could see them, and hear them.  Very helpful when writing actually becomes transcribing.  Feels a bit like cheating.  Will write that scene today in front of the fireplace with my coffee.
Arrived at the Burlington event a little early and met Louise Murphy, the librarian, who’s also a cook.  She’d baked a marvellous spice cake for us. 

A good number of people arrived, and because the weather was so awful there was a kind of life-boat feel to it.  I yakked on for half an hour or so.  Fortunately for everyone there it was riveting. 

Then answered some very good questions:
Do I think of it as the Three Pines Mysteries or the Armand Gamache Mysteries?
(Armand Gamache was my answer since he’s the centre that holds them all together)
The Arnot case becomes more and more important as the books progress, reaching a climax in The Cruelest Month – did I have that in mind when I wrote Still Life, the first book?
(no, actually.  I wanted Gamache to have a past, and a mystery back there to explain why his career had stalled, but I wasn’t totally clear what it was.  Only in writing A Fatal Grace did the Arnot Case become clear)

After suffering writer’s block for 5 years before finally writing Still Life, how is it you’re now writing so many books? (alcohol and gummi bears.  Really, just gummi bears.  I signed a 3 book contract to begin with, then another one – taking the series to 6 books minimum.  It would be a book a year.  But after taking 45 years to write the first the idea of writing the next in 12 months terrified me.  It’s not unusual.  In fact, it’s called the Sophomore Curse.  Nice.  But after deciding to stop messing around with the dramatics, and just write the book I really want to – not worry what others thought – out came A Fatal Grace.  And we’ve just found out it has been nominated for the prestigious Agatha Award for Best Novel. )

There were lots of other questions too.  Very thoughtful and considered. 

A week ago today I’d risen at 3:30 in the morning in Detroit to catch a 6am flight to Phoenix.  4 hour flight – very relaxing.  Listened to my iPod and made notes.  Was met at the Phoenix airport by brilliant sun and 85 degree heat.  The man next to me on the plane was wearing what looked like a thong.  I, of course, was in my jeans, cashmere turtleneck and jacket.  Not because I didn’t realize Phoenix would be hot, but because I only had a carry-on and needed to wear the bulkiest clothing.  This is where my clever system failed me.

The media escort picked me up and took me to an interview for Arizona Today.  Very fun show.  Ernest Borgnine was on right after me!  Relieved they didn’t get us confused. 

Had an event that night at the Poisoned Pen bookstore.  Do you know it?  Fabulous place.  Run by Barbara and Rob Peters.  To say it’s a mystery bookstore is like saying the Golden Gate is a bridge.  Barbara has been rightly honoured all over the US and Canada for her contribution to the field of mystery and crime writing – both as a bookseller and publisher.  She has her own imprint.  She’s a real hero in the field, and it as so wonderful to have been invited there.  Also met Lesa Holstein there.  She lives nearby, is a librarian and has a wonderful, literate blog. 

Then back to the hotel to sleep for another 3:30am wake up and another flight.  Book tours really are a shortcut to dementia. 

I’ll talk to you tomorrow...Good Friday.  My latest book, The Cruelest Month, is set at Easter – where the villagers decide they’d try their hand at raising the dead.  Not their best idea.

Be well.