Welcome Heather, it's so good to have you back on my blog.
We had a lot of fun the last time, let's see if we could do it again.
What do you want to tell the readers today? Take it away, girl.
Happy Holidays from a By-Gone Era
by
Heather Haven
Imagine
it is the year 1942, not 2012. Boogie woogie and the great bands play
incessantly on your tabletop radio. Oleo has just come into popularity, as has
condensed milk, better known as armored cow. Wherever you live in this country
– rural or urban - you have just survived the Great Depression. The USA has
officially entered World War II and it is looming overseas. Maybe a father,
husband, son, nephew, or cousin is ‘over there’ fighting on foreign soil. Maybe
a daring female member of your family, as well. When a country is at war, women
are far more involved than a society wants to admit, especially way back then. But
there they were - nurses, couriers, admins, maintenance workers, ambulance and
staff drivers, not to mention the occasional gunner, pilot, and spy.
You
couldn’t and can’t keep women out of stuff like this. I suspect there was a
woman or two who climbed out from inside the Trojan horse - in disguise, of
course. History shows us many women who wanted to do more in this world
disguised themselves as men in order to accomplish just that. The phrase ‘A
Man’s World’ did not daunt or limit them.
Enter
Persephone ‘Percy’ Cole, brazen enough in her own way. She was one of the first
female shamuses in New York City, driven by her brain, a take-no-prisoners attitude,
and a need to support her young son and family. She was intelligent, tenacious,
and funny. She was a woman trying to take her place in a man’s world.
Christmas
of 1942 finds her taking over the detective business her uncle and father
started, her uncle having passed on and her father unable to work due to an
injury from a previous case. Though she is the only hope of keeping the small
family together and maybe putting a present or two under the tree, her father
is filled with misgivings. A female detective! Bah humbug!!
But
it doesn’t take him long – or the rest of the family – to see the wisdom of
this choice in careers. For if Sam Spade or Philip Marlowe had been a woman,
they would have probably been a lot like this 5’11”, full-figured gal,
Persephone ‘Percy’ Cole. She’s one smart, wise-cracking cookie and can wear a
fedora like nobodies business.
What say we get down to the basics. A little tease into your book would be nice.
Persephone Cole and the Christmas
Killings Conundrum
In late December, 1942, Persephone (Percy) Cole, one of
Manhattan's first female PIs, has been hired to find out who killed a Santa
Land elf and left the body in the storefront window of a swank 5th Avenue
jewelry store. Was it the spoiled heiress whose big buck handbag was found on
the scene? Or was it the rat who broke out of the big house to settle a score?
Shortly after, the corpse of the Christmas Angel is discovered stuffed in Mrs.
Santa's workshop. Will Santa Claus be next? With a penchant for Marlene
Dietrich suits, pistachio nuts and fedora hats, this working mother finds
diamonds to the left of her, diamonds to the right, and skullduggery aplenty.
Armed with her noodle and a WW I German Mauser, Percy is determined to solve
these crimes or it just might be the 'kiss off' for Christmas.
Buy page for Persephone Cole and
the Christmas Killings Conundrum:
Here is Heather's first chapter. Read and enjoy.
Persephone Cole
And the Christmas Killings Conundrum
By
Heather Haven
Chapter One
“Are you that
fat lady detective?” The male voice spoke in a hurried manner on the other end
of the line.
I don’t know about being a lady, Percy
thought, being born and raised on the
lower east side, but I am substantial and a PI. So two out of three ain’t bad.
“Yeah, that’s
me, Persephone Cole. Although, I would have preferred to be called
full-figured, plump, stout, portly, hefty, zaftig, rotund, corpulent, chubby,
or how about roly-poly? Something with a little thought in it. But who’s this
and what do you want?” She pulled a small bag of pistachio nuts out of the
pocket of her slacks with her free hand, tossed the bag on the telephone table,
and routed around for a nut, while she listened.
“My name’s
Waller, William Waller--”
“Like Fats
Waller?” she interrupted, grabbing a salty nut out of the bag. Okay, you unimaginative creep. We can all make fat cracks. The other
end of the line went stone, cold silent.
Percy popped the
nut in her mouth and using years of practice, separated the two shells with her
front teeth, and sucked out the meat. She picked the two shells out of her
mouth and chewed, as she dropped the shells into one of the ubiquitous ashtrays
scattered around the apartment for this sole purpose.
A sudden loud
voice coming from the kitchen radio crackled an announcement of the need to buy
war bonds. The United States had been in the war for over a year now and most
everyone was tapped out, but the voice droned on, just in case.
“Hold it a
minute, Waller,” Percy commanded. She cradled the phone against what has been
referred to from time to time as her ample bosom, and shouted down the hall of
the railroad flat to the kitchen.
“Hey, shut that
door, will you, Pop? I got a potential client here.” The swinging door swooshed
closed between the hallway and the kitchen. Uncle Sam had been muted, at least
for the moment.
Percy put the
phone back to her ear to the sound of heavy breathing. If she hadn’t known
better, she would have thought it was an obscene phone call.
“I’m back. What can I do for you, Mr. Waller?”
She tried to keep her voice pleasant and professional, but it may have been a
little too late for that. She reached for another nut.
“There’s a dead
elf in my storefront window.”
“Excuse me?” Her
hand froze midway to her mouth.
“One of those
Santa elves from down the street. You know, Santa Land. I want to know what
he’s doing in my display window.”
“Off the top of
my head, I’d say not much, him being dead and all.” This remark also met stony
silence. “Never mind. Have you called the police?” She threw the nut back into
the bag.
“Yes, they’re here now. I never saw him
before.” His tone at first sounded puzzled then it changed. ‘You’re a real
smarty pants, aren’t you?”
“That’s what
they tell me.” Never give a jerk an even
break, that’s my motto. “So why are you calling me if the cops are taking
care of it? How’d you get my number?”
He lowered his
voice. “I want to hire you, but I need to talk to you about this in person, not
over the phone.”
“I don’t come
cheap, Mr. Waller.” Actually, I do come
cheap, but I’m about to hike up the price for you, buster. Fat, huh? We’ll see
about that. “I’m twenty a day plus expenses, with a three-day guarantee.”
Percy paused, having
trouble believing what she was asking, herself, and added, “It being the
holiday season and all, I’ll make it a two-day guarantee. But it’s still twenty
bucks a day.”
“Very well, Mrs.
Cole, whatever you say. Just get here.” The words came out rapidly, and in what
Miss Schultz, her English teacher, might have called a ‘terse manner’.
“It’s Miss Cole and where’s here?”
“Fifty-ninth and
Fifth Avenue, right off Central Park. Waller and Sons Jewelry.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
He paused,
mumbled “Thank you,” and disconnected.
She cradled the
receiver on her shoulder. The last-minute attempt at manners on his part
surprised her, even though the address he gave was in a pretty hoity-toity part
of Manhattan.
I should have stuck to the three-day minimum.
She hung up the
phone with gusto and the rickety telephone table her mother insisted on calling
‘dainty’ wobbled and nearly fell over. Since she could remember, this genuine
knock-off of an exact replica of a Louis the Sixteenth, had been hanging out in
the hallway of their lower eastside apartment threatening to collapse. Her
mother inherited it from her favorite aunt and despite both women’s tender
ministrations and conviction of its value; Percy suspected its demise was
eminent while its net worth was about thirty-nine cents.
She snatched up
the bag of nuts, crammed them in her pocket, turned around in the narrow
vestibule and took a quick gander at her reflection in the matching knock-off
mirror. The bulge of the nuts only added to the bulges everywhere else. She
loved Marlene Dietrich-style pant suits but they only came so big. When last
weighed, Percy came in at 172 pounds. At five foot eleven inches, she often
piled her hair on top of her head, gaining another three inches of height. This
made her taller than any woman she’d met and most of the men serving overseas
in Hitler’s war games. At thirty-five years of age, Percy preferred to think of
herself as impressive, even in her Marlene Dietrich-style pant suit, which had
been let down as well as being let out.
A quick scrutiny of her face made her wince.
Without makeup, blondish-orange eyebrows and eyelashes looked almost
nonexistent. In fact, her unhealthy pasty look was of someone living in a cave,
year after year, never seeing the light of day. It was the usual redhead’s
plight.
One of the best
inventions, in Percy’s opinion, was cake mascara. She still had hers from high
school, circa nineteen twenty-four, a testament to its longevity and her rare
usage. Percy toyed with going into the bathroom, lathering it up, and applying
some.
Naw,
this is good enough for jazz.
She shook her
head and long curls trapped in the rubber band at the crown of her head flopped
everywhere. Red and amber-streaked ringlets shimmered in the light coming in
from the lone window of the vestibule. Even she knew her thick red hair was one
of her best features.
But only when it’s under control, kiddo, and
that’s not today; too much moisture in the air. Maybe I can add Pop’s fedora to
my mop before I leave, so I don’t have to think about it.
She headed to
the kitchen which bustled with the usual early morning activity. The radio
blared in the background, her father sat in his wheelchair with his bad leg
resting straight out in its cast and him yelling at her younger sister.
“Serendipity, do
you have to do that here?” Pop leaned in as far forward in the wheelchair as
his belly and leg would permit. “And while we’re eating breakfast? That smell
is enough to drop flies. Now put that away. And pay attention to me when I’m talking
to you.”
Better known as
Sera, Percy’s kid sister ignored their father and continued to apply red
lacquer to short, squat nails. Percy had the same short squat nails and
wouldn’t dream of bringing attention to them, but that was Sera.
Ignoring the uproar,
Mother stood at the stove humming a tuneless but annoying little ditty. Percy’s
eight-year old son, Oliver, sat at the end of the table, hunched over his
oatmeal, short, blue-black hair plastered down from the morning bath. He, too,
was paying no attention to the battle of wills going on at the table, lost in
the further adventures of the Green Lantern. While he read his comic book, he
hummed a similar ditty to that of his grandmother.
Percy tried not
to think about her son having inherited her mother’s daffiness. Some things are
better left alone. She reached up instead, and turned off the radio blasting
the Andrew Sister’s version of Don’t Sit
Under The Apple Tree With Anybody Else But Me. For an instant, silence
reigned. Then everyone started to talk again.
“Sorry, Pop.”
Sera’s voice was, however, devoid of any contrition. She tossed dyed blond
curls. “But I have to get to the factory by eight and I won’t have any time to
polish my nails after work. I’ve got a big date tonight.”
“How lovely.”
Mother spoke in a dreamy tone, the only one she used when awake. “So many young
men you see, Serendipity, and nearly every evening. Have I met this new boy,
what’s his name?”
Sera didn’t
answer.
“She probably
can’t remember his name, grandma,” Oliver said in a guileless tone, without
looking up from his comic book.
“Out of the
mouths of babes,” muttered Percy.
Mother turned
from the stove and dumped a large dollop of hot oatmeal into an empty bowl
before an empty chair. Percy sat down and picked up a spoon.
“I’m in a hurry,
Mother, so nothing else for me.” Percy poured diluted, condensed milk over the
warm cereal. She hated oatmeal and loathed canned milk, but neither eggs nor
bacon had seen the inside of their kitchen in months. “Pop, I just got a job.”
She shoveled in a large spoonful of the cereal, trying not to taste it.
Everyone except
Oliver turned and stared her. Money being tight and Pop unable to work with his
broken leg, it left Percy to be the major bread winner of the family. They were
having what President Roosevelt referred to as ‘lean times.’
Pop was the
first to speak. “What kind of a job? Is that what the phone call was about? You
know, we don’t take just any job.” He raised his hand, pointing his index
finger at the ceiling before making his further statement. “Cole Investigations
has standards.”
“Pop, it’s a
jeweler on Fifth Avenue. This Waller guy seems like a real jerk, but who am I
to say no? Something about a dead elf left in his store window, and the cops
are already there. It sounds in and out, but I did manage to get a two-day
guarantee.” She looked around at the rapt attention her remarks had drawn.
“And, I’m making twenty bucks a day plus expenses.”
“Twenty bucks?”
Oliver looked up from his comic book, astonishment written all over his sweet,
freckled face. “A day?”
“Oh, my,”
remarked her mother, doing her usual Zazu Pitts impression. “So much money! And
for one day! Why, our rent is only nine dollars and we live here thirty days
out of the month, sometimes thirty-one. Isn’t that right, Father?” Mother
stopped stirring the pot of oatmeal, turned, and glanced at her husband for
support.
Used to his
wife’s zaniness, Pop looked at her and smiled. “It is, indeed, Mother.”
“And in
February, it’s twenty-eight,” murmured Sera, blowing on her nails.
Their parents
had called each other ‘Mother’ and ‘Father’ since Percy could remember.
Probably because Pop was named after Habakkuk, a biblical prophet. Mother’s
real name was Lamentation. With her willowy shape and long, white blonde hair,
Mother looked more like a Dandelion, threatening to blow away at any moment.
Percy’s family
had a history of unusual, if not downright peculiar, first names on both sides.
Her older brother’s name was Adjudication, and no doubt the main reason
he’d become a lawyer. So, stuck with Adjudication, Serendipity, and Persephone,
the Cole off-spring was glad for the usage of nicknames, such as Jude, Sera,
and Percy.
“I don’t want
you to put yourself in jeopardy on this job, not even for a king’s ransom,
Persephone.” Pop turned back to his eldest daughter. “If I could go with you
--”
“Don’t worry,
Pop,” she interrupted. “Like I said, this should be in and out and the fastest
twenty bucks - no, make that forty bucks – Cole Investigations ever made.” She
gulped down the last of her breakfast, got up, and took the car keys off the
hook by the back door.
“Think Ophelia
has enough gas in her to get me midtown, Pop?” The 1929 Dodge was the family
car, old, black, and ugly, but its engine came to life each time you pressed
down on the starter. The gas gauge was one of the many things that no longer
worked, and between rationing and only being able to afford to put in one or
two gallons at a time, father and daughter ran out of gas more times than they
cared to think about.
“Put in five gallons,
Persephone, right before my leg turned bad.”
“That was two
months ago.” She gave it some thought. “Man, has it been that long?”
Pop smiled.
“Nobody else driving it now except you.”
“I would if Pop
would let me,” Sera interjected, with a pout.
“You got all
those boyfriends to tote you around, Serendipity. You don’t need a car.” Pop’s
voice was kind but firm.
“Well, the last
time I got home on fumes.” Percy gave out a laugh and shook her head. “I’d
better take the subway. It’s faster, anyway.” One thing about living on the
lower eastside, a couple of blocks walk to the BMT and it got you nearly
everywhere in Manhattan.
“Get off at
fifty-seventh and Fifth.” Pop talked as if she hadn’t ridden the train a
thousand times. “And good luck with the job.”
“I’m taking your
fedora, Pop. My hair’s a wreck. Hope you don’t mind.” She snatched the hat off
the rack near the back door then ran to the end of the table, reached over and
tousled her son’s short, damp hair. “You be a good boy and do everything Grandma
says, Oliver. Don’t forget your raincoat. And come straight home from school.
Okay?”
He dropped his
comic book and grinned up at her, the child who gave her life meaning. “Okay,
Mommy.” He screwed his face up, closed his eyes, and she placed a noisy, wet kiss
on his forehead.
“You’re just so
yummy, I could eat you up just like a pistachio nut.” Percy grabbed him in a
bear hug and pretended to smother him. He giggled and so did everyone at the
table. She left to the sounds of laughter.
Thank you for sharing your chapter with us, Heather. It's a great read.
Leave a comment below folks to let Heather know you were here.
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