Murder on the First Day of Christmas by Billie Thomas

My taste for fictional mystery can be best described as bipolar. On the one side, I love hard-boiled detective novels -- Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, Robert B. Parker, and Sue Grafton. On the other side I’m a sucker for English tea mysteries. Agatha Christie. Elizabeth George. P.D. James. I tend to stay within these two comfort zones. However, when a friend, whose writing style I admire, writes a mystery novel, I would be remiss not to take a look – even though it doesn’t fit within either of my fictional mystery comfort zones.

Such is the case with Murder of the First Day of Christmas by Billie Thomas. Ms. Thomas died suddenly in 2011 as she was beginning this series of mystery  novels. Her daughter was looking for someone to finish out the first novel and help honor her mother. She found that person in Stephanie Naman.

Stephanie is a writer with a Birmingham-based ad agency, Luckie & Co., and I would be less than forthcoming if I didn’t tell you that she has done some great work on behalf of Regions. I consider her a friend. And I consider her a terrific writer.

I know the word “murder” is in the title. And it’s called a “Chloe Carstairs Mystery.” But to me the book is really a story about the relationship of a daughter and her mom. It just so happens that there is murder most foul as the background along with a host of great characters. But it’s the relationship between Chloe and her mother, Amanda, that drives the story forward. Chloe is her own person and, many times, is not exactly the person her mother wants her to be. Chloe thinks she has her mother completely figured out only to find that her mother has a few surprises in store for her as well.

The Carstairs decorate homes for Christmas. And, generally speaking, these are over-the-top professional decorating projects that can only be done by people who know what they are doing. In other words, it's more than someone like me sticking a few lighted deer in the front yard. They decorate these homes in particular for well-to-do families who are hosting lavish holiday parties for family and friends.

It’s at these parties that death shows up. Accidental? I think not. Oh, and there’s this whole thing with a disembodied hand. And because of their natural curiosity, the Carstairs are on the case.

The writing is tight and the story moves along at a quick clip. Despite the simplicity of the writing and the directness of the plot, I found that I was easily suckered by more than one red herring thrown in my path by Ms. Thomas. Plus, you get the added bonus of terrific humor. I found myself laughing out loud more than once.

The book is available as a real book in paperback and via Kindle.

I recommend the book and predict you will finish it in one sitting.

Valentine's Day: A Cautionary Tale

The other morning my youngest daughter asked if I had a funny story about Valentine’s Day. The answer, of course, is absolutely. I have a story I think is funny about almost anything, but, as it turns out, this story is also a great cautionary tale to all newlywed men.

My wife and I celebrated our first Valentine’s Day as a married couple on Feb. 14, 1989. We had been married that previous August, and spent our honeymoon in Tuscaloosa at Shoney’s and Delchamps. It would be fair to say that we barely had two nickels to rub together.

But, we were happy. I was in graduate school. Rachael was working. We were poor, but we were proud and, yes, we had each other.

One quick piece of background information: My wife and her family celebrate every holiday like it may be the last holiday on Earth. My family celebrates Thanksgiving and Christmas.

So, it was an incredible surprise when, as Valentine’s Day drew closer, she came to me with a simple request.

Her: “Bret, I love you, and I know money is tight right now so I don’t think we should buy anything for each other on Valentine’s Day.”

Me: “Well, I don’t know about that. Are you sure?”

Her: “Absolutely. I love you. You love me. We love one another. I know that. You know that. We don’t need to give each other anything on Valentine’s Day to prove that.”

Me: “You’re sure? Really?”

Her: “Yes. So, we won’t buy anything for each other for Valentine’s Day. Plus, I would rather just save money for my birthday in April.”

Me: “Okay.”

Valentine’s Day rolls around. I wake up that morning preparing to go to class, and she comes to me with a card – a Valentine’s Day card. She wishes me a happy Valentine’s Day, tells me how much she loves me and hands me a wonderful card expressing the undying love she has for me.

I got nothing.

She stands. Waiting. Anticipating.

I got nothing.

I tell her I love her and then remind her of our conversation earlier in the year.

It was then that she said something that changed my married life forever and removed the scales from my eyes: “I know what I said, but I never, ever thought you would think I was serious.”

Needless to say, it was a chilly Valentine’s Day for me in 1989.

Two mistakes were made:

• First, I took seriously something that my wife said that was directly contradictory to any evidence that had been presented to that point in our marriage.
• Second, I made the huge – HUGE – mistake of reminding her of something that she said earlier that was directly contrary to what she actually believed.

It was a hard lesson but it’s one that I am more than willing to freely pass along to any newlywed young man or any young man new to a relationship.

The moral of the story? As a friend of mine says: For Valentine’s Day, flowers and a card are baseline. Everything else is considered “above and beyond.”

Happy Valentine’s Day and you’re welcome.

Notes along the father-daughter continuum: The Question

It comes out of nowhere.

Sort of sneaks up on you.

You never see it coming.

You don’t feel it.

You don’t sense it.

You turn around. And it’s there.

The Question.

“Daddy, is there a Santa Claus?”

Many times this is a trick question. They look to you for confirmation of what they already believe they know. They have worked it out. The physics of it. The general understanding of what is, what was and what could be. Is this possible?

So they blurt it out. . .and wait.

“Daddy, why is the sky blue?”

This one they don’t know but they are still at that age where they truly believe you do. You scramble for an answer. The truth is you could say just about anything but you want to at least give them a kernel of truth. How horrible would it be if they were at a friend’s house and this question was raised? They would confidently answer: “My daddy says the sky is blue because there was a tear in the space-time continuum that formed a worm hole which collapsed on itself and exploded into a our big blue sky.”

“Daddy, if God created the heavens and the earth, who created God?”

It’s the ever-feared theological question. What the heck? Aren’t they supposed to be all about “Jesus Loves Me” and all that? What’s up with a theological question that even the most learned men of the cloth have a hard time with?

“Daddy, what does it mean when someone says they are having their ‘period’?”

Ah. . .yes. You would think that this question would throw off even the most confident of men. But, no. Generally speaking, by the time this question is uttered, you have already formulated the ever-popular answer. . . “Go ask your mother.”

The interesting aspect of this is that as they get older, they just assume you’re as dumb as a sack of hammers. Therefore the questions tend to slow down a bit. I mean, think about it. Why ask a question of someone whom you know has no freakin’ idea what they are talking about? What’s the point?

But then they begin to learn about sex. This opens up a whole new avenue of exploration, questions and potential for embarrassment. It doesn’t help that I specifically have told both of my daughters that they can ask me anything at anytime and I will answer them honestly.

My wife and I have always been fairly forthright with our children about sex and private parts. This has proven to be a positive development in some ways but a detriment in others. Knowing my general unease for this type of discussion only encourages both of my daughters to make up songs using the anatomically correct names of private parts in the refrain. These are most often sung in the car on the way back from the beach. There is no escape.

But there is from time to time the Question.

“Daddy, what does mean?”

My oldest daughter asked me this while we were driving home one day. I haven’t heard that word uttered aloud since I was a sophomore in high school. It’s important that you show no fear. No emotion. No laughter. No tears. Don’t lose control of the car. Stare straight ahead. And in a voice void of all emotion, I told her what it meant and explained that you are not to use that term.

It had been a while since I had gotten any questions. But, as I said before, they sneak up on you.

My youngest daughter and I were watching the NCAA tournament. And, as is the norm, just about every other commercial had to do with erectile dysfunction. Over and over. Men smiling. Women smiling. Holding hands. Sitting in tubs. Going into the hut. Driving a motorcyle. The catchy tune. It seemed like they lasted forever. Then, blessedly, they were done. But, as it turns out, not done soon enough.

“Daddy, what is Cialis?”

It came out of nowhere. I suppose I should have expected it.

“Well, sweetie, Cialis is a medication for men.”

That should have been it. Had it been any other child in America, that would have been it. But, no. Not my youngest. Not the one who can sense fear from miles away. Not the one who knows when she’s got you on the ropes. Not the one who will one day be a feared litigator stalking the nation’s courtrooms like a red-headed female version of Perry Mason.

“Okay but what does it do?”

It was then that I had a choice. I could use the fall back position of directing her to her ever-trusted mother. Or I could manipulate the truth – “Well, it designed to help increase blood flow.” Not exactly the whole truth, but not a lie either.

Or I could tell the whole, unvarnished truth. So that’s what I did. I explained to her what Cialis was and why men took it and what it did. I didn’t crack a smile. I didn’t laugh. I didn’t cry. I answered her as if I were reminding her of when she was born.

She looked at me in disgust.

“Okay. . .eeeewwww.”

Then she didn’t talk to me the rest of the day.

Sometimes it pays to be honest.

Notes Along the Father-Daughter Continuum: "Responsibilitum in Absentia"

After living with two young members of the female species for 11 and 15 years respectively, it has not escape my notice nor the notice of others that I find myself being slowly drawn into their community. This is, of course, not entirely unexpected but is not particularly helpful when it comes to noting and cataloging their behavior.

Many of their rituals continue to be foreign to me but over this span of time, I have begun to gain some hint of understanding that has led me to this place. In effect, I have found myself being drawn inexorably into the darkness that is female tween and teen. The darkness is so pervasive that it becomes nigh impossible to see one’s hand before one’s face. Then, in a moment of enlightenment, this darkness is punctuated by the light of understanding.

One such epiphanous moment has occurred most recently and can best be described as “Responsibilitum in Absentia” or “absence of any and all responsibility.” This is a curious defect with obvious symptoms, but it is hard to determine when it begins. Based on my own observations, it appears to begin around age 10 or 11. And its appearance, while no doubt is gradual, becomes apparent to the casual observer rather immediately.

This malady is quite apparent in the older member of the two young females that I am observing. So much so that there is a clear understanding that most, if not all, of the occurrences in her sphere of influence are the result of some outside intervention – either natural or super-natural.

The most recent example of this phenomenon involves her academic life, an area in which she actually excels. However, when the occasional poor score does occur, the phrase “It’s not my fault” is repeated to such a degree that one must wonder if its repetition is needed to convince the speaker of its validity.

When questioned regarding “fault” for the poor score, answers range from “the test was too hard” to “the teacher didn’t explain things well” to the fairly popular refrain of: “I don’t know. All I know is that it is not my fault.”

Another recent example involving the youngest of the two females involved the sudden super-natural destruction of a pair of swimming goggles. My only role in this was as the purchaser of said goggles. After that no one else, other than the youngest female, came into contact with said goggles.

When the time came for everyone to retire to the indoor swimming area for fun and relaxation, the goggles were nowhere to be found. When questioned about the goggles, the youngest identified their location as “in the drawer.” When pressed for more details, she responded with disgust that they had been broken but that “it wasn’t her fault.”

Both parental units pointed out to their youngest daughter that she was clearly the only person to have handled or manipulated the goggles since their purchase a scant few hours earlier. To which she responded with antagonism, surliness and generalized anger. However, fault lay elsewhere – no doubt attributed to some heretofore unidentified super-natural event.

Many more examples of “Responsibilitum in Absentia” could be outlined here but there is neither the time nor space available for such a vast cataloging of observations. Suffice to say that this observer will continue chronicling his findings. Respectfully submitted. . .