Go Ahead! Judge Our Books by Their Covers!

Many generous people have asked how the covers of our books originate. And we’re happy to elaborate. When we are working on a new book and reach the stage that signals it’s time to turn our attention to a cover . . . it’s a yippee!!! kind of day.

It’s like a bride, working with a wedding planner, putting the details of the event together and finally coming to the part where she gets to pick THE dress.

In our case, picking a cover is a collaborative effort. There are many family members and friends consulted. But once we’ve culled our short list of photos from the hundreds we have taken and then agreed on our final choice, it’s off to Laura Eshelman Neuman for the final fitting. Laura is an amazing woman (and Patty’s daughter-in-law) who takes our photos and turns them into incredible covers.

When we started with our first Val & Kit Mystery, The Disappearance of Mavis Woodstock, our original idea was a hand-drawn sketch showing our protagonists standing next to a real-estate sign. But it was bad. At least Roz, the artist, thought so. Then someone suggested using a photo of a front door. As it happened, Patty’s daughter Melissa had just posted a photo of her own front door on her blog, Mel’s Green Garden. That photo was taken by Melissa’s dear friend and then-neighbor Amy Spreitzer Windsor of the Bitchin’ Wives Club blog. Laura worked her magic with the design of all the elements, and we were thrilled with the results. Networking at its best!

This set the scene for our next book, The Murder of Susan Reed. This was serious stuff: a real gun belonging to a real police officer and a single bullet depicting a murderous act. Thank you, Sheila (Laura’s friend—and ours too!)!

The cover for Death in Door County was pure joy. We, along with one of our proofreaders, Sarah Paschall, spent a fun four days driving around the beautiful Door County and stopping to take pictures, among other things (eating, drinking, sightseeing, and just generally having fun). The result was an ominous winding road, perfect for our purposes.

Lethal Property was simpler. The cover was shot by Mike Gerbino using Roz’s kitchen chair as the backdrop and her Jackie Ohh sunglasses strategically placed. Val’s business card was whipped up on Roz’s computer. Once again, the final result was sent to Laura, who managed to turn it into Patty’s favorite cover.

Speaking of Laura, and covers, our NON–Val & Kit book, Dressing Myself, features our favorite cover girl posing as our protagonist Jessie.

Which is YOUR favorite?

Our latest Val and Kit mystery, which is nearing its final stages, will be titled Palm Desert Killing. Lucky Val and Kit—not to mention Patty and her husband, Johnny—are currently in California. Patty and Johnny are taking pictures of palm trees, mountains, and the desert on their daily hikes. Poor them, forced to enjoy glorious California and capture it on film, er, iPhones.

Mission Accomplished!

Best Month of the Year (According to Roz)

I just checked my calendar and realized that February has only another full week left, so I’m reminded that our February blog has not yet hit the computer screen. Other bloggers may experience the same phenomenon: writing a blog each month is sometimes like that Seinfeld episode where they come up with a show about nothing. (Isn’t there a Seinfeld episode that can apply to anything in life?) In this case, what subject do we tackle?

In short, February’s blog is about February. As months go, I really like February. By far my favorite. It falls so nicely between that bloated January, where everyone is still on their holiday high, and March, with all its springtime nonsense and tax preparation.

February is such a compact month, short and sweet, and packed with all sorts of goodies, starting with Groundhog Day (which means nothing to those of us living in the South; but I did love the movie). Then we have Valentine’s Day, the sweetest day of the year, followed closely by Presidents’ Day, when there is always a good sale or two. Ash Wednesday is a unique time for those of us who imbibe, the Super Bowl is in there somewhere, and we round the month out with the Academy Awards. What other month offers so much?

Unfortunately, in Houston this year we have been a little short-changed in the wintry-weather department. Some Houstonians are happy with this state of affairs, but I like a few really cold days, and even a sprinkling of snow occasionally. But so far my Uggs have not seen the light of day. My sweet little hat/scarf/mittens combo is still waiting for a day cold enough to warrant dragging them out. And my ceiling fan remains on the warm-weather cycle. So far! Oh, I would like to extend my sympathies to the folks living on the East Coast. Patty, by the way, is wintering in Palm Desert, California, so she gets no sympathy from anyone (although it is a working vacay, as she researches for our Val & Kit Mystery No. 5, set in Palm Desert and as yet untitled; we look forward to an unveiling in the not-too-distant future).

Patty, researching with granddaughters Emma and Ella in SoCal

To all our readers, we hope you enjoy the remaining days of February. For you Northerners, the good news is, you’ve got only another week.

Roz Proclaims: Out with the Old, and Nothing New Comes In

Rather than make any new resolutions for 2015, I’m going to try to get rid of some of the old obsessions that carried me through 2014. This might seem like the same thing in reverse, but I’m pretty sure that getting rid of something is easier than starting something new.

So, this brings me to my first obsession: collecting stuff I no longer use or need and putting it in a garbage sack to take to Goodwill. Twelve months ago I had one sack. Now I have seven. The obsession part is the accumulation, feeling so good about all the excellent things I will be donating. The getting rid part involves actually hauling the sacks into my car and depositing them with Goodwill.

Next obsession: eyeing something in a store, usually an item of clothing, and thinking I simply must have it. Unfortunately, when I get home, I discover I’ve bought the same thing, or something similar enough to have no distinction, at least three times already. I place the perfect black pumps on my shoe rack beside their identical sisters, all of whom are screaming take me to Goodwill, already!

On their way to Roz's car--finally!

Then there is my cell phone. Actually, it’s not my phone I obsess about, but the cell phone of my boyfriend, who I insist should be just as enthralled with his as I am with mine. Why isn’t he oohing over the laser beam app, or aahing over voice search?  Why does he see no need to send anyone a picture or even a text?  So I am going to stop beating him over the head and let him do just what he wants: make a phone call.

Television shows are hardly worth mentioning and almost seem healthy, since they do tend to run their course quickly. I am currently obsessed with Breaking Bad. Before my obsession began, I was mystified why this show won so many awards, even though I’d never seen a single episode. Thanks to Netflix, I am now halfway through the entire series, and I get it. It’s good. But as with The Sopranos and Homeland, to name just two, once I am done, I will resume normal life.

Speaking of television shows, I did spend an inordinate amount of time in 2014 trying to figure out how to receive the optimum Wi-Fi signal at home. It should have been easy, since my house is small, and the cable attaching the modem to the wall is even smaller. I may have to break my own rule in 2015 and call my service provider, but since we spent so much time chatting in 2014, we are old friends by now.

Removing clutter is annoying, even to me, the declutterer. While I must remove all unnecessary objects from any counter or table, I often find I need a removed item an hour or so later, and then the problem becomes remembering where I put it. This obsession even extends to my e-mail in-box. All mail has been moved to the trash file as soon as I read it. Now I vow to let opened and read email languish in the in-box, enjoy a little vacation time, before I inevitably send it to the trash and then, of course, empty the trash!

Most important, for 2015, Patty and I wish all our wonderful readers a happy, joyous, and obsession-free year. And please feel free to delete this after reading.

Roz Explains Why Santa Claus Was a Little Late

On Christmas Eve I was given the task of reading ’Twas the Night Before Christmas to my four-year-old grandniece Emily. The plan was that she would fall asleep and I would then join the adults for the ongoing festivities. So, snuggled beside her in the bed, I read the beloved story while Emily studied the pictures in the book to be sure I was on track. As I finally reached the last line, the very wide-awake Emily took the book from me and advised that she would now “read” it to me.

In her version things changed slightly. Turns out that as soon as Santa had his sleigh packed and ready for his round-the-world trip, several of the Disney Princesses showed up with the intention of baking him a cake. For anyone not familiar with Disney Princesses, it’s a safe bet that Cinderella did most of the cooking, since I think she’s the only one who knows her way around a kitchen.

As I got sleepier, and Emily became more energized, she moved on to the story of the Baby Jesus, complete with several songs, one of which was apparently sung by a donkey. I’m also pretty sure there were a couple of Disney Princesses in the Nativity.

But my luck held out when we heard a tapping on the bedroom door (No, Emily, it’s not Santa; it’s your daddy). My nephew took over, and as I gratefully left the room, I heard him explaining how Santa was probably in New Zealand already and would soon be on his way west to England. If the rudiments of time zones couldn’t put that child to sleep, nothing could.

Eventually, much, much later, things turned out as they should. Emily did fall asleep, and good old St. Nick turned up when he was supposed to. At least judging by the stocking at the end of her bed.

Here’s hoping everyone had a joyous Christmas, no matter what time zone they live in, and Santa is back in the North Pole taking a well-deserved break.

Roz's Grandniece Emily (Speaking of Princesses)

Making a List . . .

With Thanksgiving over, Val decides it’s time to start some serious Christmas shopping. So she enlists Kit’s help on gift ideas for everyone on her list.

LET’S START WITH TOM

Val:      It has to be something amazing, but Tom is tricky; he is literally the man who has everything.

Kit:     And yet he appears to have nothing. What does he like? 

Val:     He likes German cars.

Kit:     Who doesn’t? So are you thinking a new Mercedes?

Val:     You’re not helping, and of course not a Mercedes. Think smaller. German smaller. How about a beer stein?

Kit:     Somehow I don’t see Tom Haskins guzzling beer. Why don’t you get him tickets to the auto show?

(Hmm, not the worst idea in the world.)

ON TO PERRY

Kit:     That guy is simple.

Val:     Oh good, you have an idea?

Kit:     No. I was merely pointing out that he’s simple.

Val:     What about a silk bow tie? Or a really stylish vest?

Kit:     Doesn’t he own ten thousand already? How about a Bette Midler CD? You can’t go wrong with Bette.

Val:     You might be right. I notice Perry has recently changed his ringtone to “Wind Beneath My Wings.”

(Yippee! Two presents down, and only a minimum of wrapping paper required.)

NEXT, BILLIE

Val:     She loves Aerosmith. Let me see if they have a concert in Chicago anytime soon.

Kit:     They sing?

Val:     Yes, they sing. Rock. Maybe we should go too.

Kit:     I like Andrea Bocelli, ya know.

Val:     Not sure he’s her cup of tea.

Kit:     Speaking of tea, wanna grab some Starbucks?

Val:     Not till we finish this flippin’ list.

MY MOM

Val:     This should be a no-brainer—for you. You always get her better gifts than I do. Any thoughts spring to mind?

Kit:     No problem; book a cruise for her and William. Somewhere exotic; Bali, or Fiji.

Val:     Er . . . that would be a super-duper idea, Kitty Kat. But I wasn’t planning to take out a bank loan.

Kit:     What do you usually get her? A lump of coal?

(In terms of expense, she wasn’t far off.)

Val:     I think I’ll get her a foot massager.

(I could just hear my mom:  Valerie, is this one of those dangerous foot gadgets from Europe? I can’t say I’ve ever met a European whose feet I admired. Okay, I’d rethink the foot massager. Or get one made in the USA, if that was possible.)

HOW ABOUT WILLIAM STUCKEY (my mom’s husband)?

Val:     He should be a breeze. Books. Maybe a nice coffee-table book on World War II.

Kit:     He reads those things?

Val:     All the time.

Kit:     He does know the ending, right?

Val:     Yeeeeees, he knows the ending, dum-dum. He’s interested in how they got to the ending.

Kit:     Everyone knows—oh, forget it!

OKAY, MUCH EASIER, EMILY AND LUKE

Val:     Done! Bicycles. One each.

Kit:     I thought you said their apartment in LA was tiny; where are they gonna put them?

Val:     Not stationary bicyles; real ones. I’ve ordered them from Sports Authority. They can hang them on the wall.

Kit:     Why don’t you get them memberships to a nice air-conditioned gym? That sounds like much more fun than cycling around California. In the outdoors. In the open air.

Val:     It’s what they want. And some people actually like being outdoors.

Kit:     In that heat? On a bicycle? It’s insane!

KIT’S PEEPS (I was going to be jealous; I just knew it.)

Val:     By the way, what did you buy your people?

Kit:     Oh, mine were easy peasy. I booked Larry into a golf clinic in Arizona for three weeks.  Of course it’s more a present for me, just to get him out of my hair for that length of time. And I bought Sam a first-class ticket to Chicago for two weeks,

Val:     So again, more a gift for you than for your son.

Kit:     Moving on. For my mother and her husband, I am sending a case of good champagne. She’s half in the bag most of the time, anyway, and after she opens the first bottle, she won’t be going anywhere, least of all to visit me. Perfect gift!

Val:     And not in the least self-serving.

Kit:     Not in any way.

Val:     So you are done.

Kit:     Not quite. I still have to get something for you, but I know what it is.

Val:     Oh, please, don’t get all extravagant on me. I can’t afford to reciprocate.

Kit:     Reciprocation has nothing to do with it. When have we ever compared expenditures on gifts to each other?

(Last Christmas I gave her a Starbucks coffee cup and a framed picture of the two of us taken outside our favorite coffee shop. She gave me a gray cashmere pashmina wrapped around a pearl choker with a diamond clasp.)

Val:     Never.

(Although since I had divorced and money was tight, I’d generally felt embarrassed at my measly gifts to her, compared to the lavish presents she gave me—most of which I never used because . . . well, because of the lavishness.)

Kit:     So prepare yourself, Valley Girl. This year I'm going all out.

Val:     Oh no . . . please don’t . . . I don’t need anything. What about a pair of gloves? I’d like that.

Kit:     Forget gloves!  No, no—although this might require wearing gloves and possibly some kind of head covering. And you should be sure your shots are up to date.

Val:     Kiiiiiiiiiiit?

Kit:     Kidding. I’m kidding.

DEAR READERS

Kit and Val:  Since your gift to us has been thankfully and humbly received all year, our gift to you and your family is a wish for peace, prosperity, and the happiest holiday season ever. Please open early and enjoy!

Roz's great-niece Emily on
Christmas morning

Patty's grandson Jackson

Patty's granddaughters Anna Lydia and Ella

The Val & Kit Mystery Series Now Available in Paperback

THANKSGIVING 1977

“I know what will be fun. Let’s go around the table and say what we are thankful for.” Ugh! My mother said this as though a lightbulb had literally just switched on over her head, as if she’d just thought of this idea two seconds ago. Like she hadn’t said this every Thanksgiving for the past sixteen years I’d known her.

“I’ll go first,” she continued, fingering the hideous turquoise necklace around her neck that she dragged out every Thanksgiving as her nod to Native American culture. Next followed a litany of things she was grateful for, including the mild winter and President Carter (even though she was a Republican, she strongly believed every President deserved mention). My older brother, Buddy, was wedged into her list between Barbra Streisand and our new pastor at church. I came much later, with a caveat that my grades must continue to hold up and I mustn’t get distracted. By distracted, she meant, of course, my best friend, Kit, who was celebrating Thanksgiving in New York with her parents. It sounded so glamorous. So Kit. And although I’d been invited to go with them, my mother wouldn’t hear of it.

“Me next,” my funky Aunt Linda chimed in, cutting off my mother midsentence. Aunt Linda was totally far out. She had arrived wearing cool bell-bottoms, a psychedelic shirt, and a long, skinny, red scarf wrapped around her frizzy perm.

“Well, Linda,” my mother said, when Linda didn’t continue. “Enlighten us.”

“Pink Floyd—”

“Moving on.” My mother turned her gaze toward Gerald, my eighteen-year-old know-it-all cousin, indicating he better come up with something better.

“Apple,” he said.

“Apple?”

“The computer company, Aunt Jean. It’s gonna be so rad—”

“I doubt it. Clarice? What about you?”

Aunt Clarice, who unfortunately bore the maiden aunt title in our family, didn’t disappoint. “I’m so grateful for Miss Marple. She’s my Pekingese,” she explained, as if she hadn’t spent all morning telling us how wretched she felt leaving her home alone. “She’s not used to being—”

“Okay,” my mother moved on to Buddy. “What about you, son?”

Buddy leaned forward, his elbows on the table. He looked so handsome with his hair curling over the top of his pale-blue acrylic turtleneck sweater. Not that I’d ever tell him that, of course. “I’m grateful for . . .”

“Go on,” Mom urged him.

“For this delicious turkey . . . this awesome meal. Thanks, Mom.”

My mother looked satisfied, as her fingers twirled around the large turquoise stones at her throat. Score one for Buddy. Again.

The remaining family members continued. Uncle Frazier was grateful for Reggie Jackson. Aunt Hattie was thankful for disco, in particular Donna Summer (at her age! Aunt Hattie was at least a hundred). My grandfather was delighted that he had his damn sciatica under control and made special mention of the tamales he’d consumed for breakfast (he said this eyeing my mother’s turkey with distaste). And when it was my dad’s turn, he raised his glass. “I’m grateful for my family. For Buddy, who I am proud to call my son; for Valerie, who brings me joy every day. And for my wife, Jean, who makes all this possible.” He waved his glass in the air to encompass everyone at the table.

Content, my mom turned her attention to me. “Valerie. Your turn.”

I had intended to say I was most grateful for my best friend, Kit, who I was missing so much this past week. She’d called me once to tell me they’d been to the World Trade Center and had tickets that night for the show Annie. I would have given anything to be with her.

“Well, Valerie,” I heard my mom’s impatient voice. She put an elbow on the table and cupped her chin in her hand. “Can you think of something before Christmas gets here?”

“Sorry,” I said, toying with the napkin on my lap. “It’s you, Mom. I’m grateful for you.”

She nodded, smiled, and looked the most grateful of all.

Throwback Thanksgiving: (top) Patty, Patty's daughter Melissa, Roz
(bottom) Melissa, Roz, Patty's husband Johnny

Happy Thanksgiving from Roz and Patty AND Val & Kit!!!

Roz Agrees: There’s No Place Like Home—Both of Them

I just returned from a trip to England, and my hometown, London. I am reminded of the famous quote by Samuel Johnson that goes, “When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life.” By the way, in case you’re not familiar with Samuel Johnson, he was a famous doctor, essayist, and poet who lived in London in the 1700s. 

Although I spent my childhood and early adult years in London, my family now all live in Surrey, a beautiful county, less than an hour away from the capital, filled with quaint villages, churches built hundreds of years ago, and charming pubs where you can often find a Labrador retriever sitting peacefully by its owner who just popped in for a quick pint (the dog owner, not the dog).

On the day of my arrival at my sister’s house, she had a party. I was struck by how many different generations were there and how everyone meshed beautifully. We danced all night to a variety of current music peppered with a few oldies including a couple of Elvis songs, some Stones, and a touching rendition of Frank Sinatra singing “New York, New York,” with all in attendance crooning along nostalgically with Ol’ Blue Eyes (9/11 was a few days away, so that made it even more special).

My dear brother-in-law, Alan, asked me once why I was so proud of Great Britain. I had to think about it for a while and used as a reference the movie Love Actually, where Hugh Grant plays the Prime Minister (and some people don’t think the English have a sense of humor!). As PM, Hugh was forced to defend Great Britain against the naughty American President and highlighted the following as proof of Britain’s impressive attributes: Shakespeare, Churchill, The Beatles, Sean Connery, Harry Potter, and David Beckham’s right foot (as well as his left one). There are many, many more. I personally love the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace, Big Ben, James Bond, Charles Dickens, Downton Abbey, the BBC, The Royal Family, Jane Austen, and good old Richard Branson. As for Gordon Ramsay, well, we all know he’s a tyrant, but he’s our tyrant.

I’m sure there are many people reading this thinking that since I love it so much, I should go back there. The truth is, I love the U.S. equally (and can list exactly what it is I love about it in another blog if anyone cares to hear). Suffice it to say, I feel happy to call Houston my home. I have no plans to return to the land of my birth any time soon, but I can still admire with great affection a small island across the Atlantic Ocean that has accomplished so much.

I can’t wait for Val and Kit to go there, in an upcoming book. I’m a little nervous about what Kit will have to say; she’s very picky. But I’m confident Val is going to love it. As we say here in America, what’s not to love?

Most famous clock in the world.

Roz's niece, Jennie, sleeping in Westminster Abbey.