The Noding Field Mystery continued by Christine Husom

 Note: This fourth book in the series will be released later this fall. Last October 20th I posted the first 2,000 or so words, and this exerpt picks up where the last one ended.

Chapter One excerpt

“What should we cordon off?” Mason asked as we walked along the dragging path toward the road.

“Tape around the body, and we better do the entire pathway to preserve any trace or forensic evidence until we get it processed.”

When we reached the end of field, it was evident a vehicle had been parked in the grassy area. Smoke shook his head. “The chances of finding a good tire mark here are slim to none. But there may be one on the shoulder of the road. Either when they drove in, or drove out.”

“I’ll walk out and check,” Mason said.

“Good. Let us know. Then I’d like you to stay out on the main road. Anyone who shows up, keep them away from the driving and dragging paths. Crime lab will be here momentarily and we’ll find out if there are any useful prints they can cast.”

Mason nodded and left for his assignment. Carlson was diligently snapping photos. Smoke and I walked back to the body, then Smoke continued a ways past it. “Nothing much south of here. Doesn’t look like they went that way at all.”

“Seven-ten, Six-oh-eight?” It was Mason calling me on the radio.

“Go ahead.”

“Our reporting person is here.”

“Thanks. Ask him to walk in, and stay on the path we created.”

“Copy.”

 A few minutes later, the pilot came into view and his long strides closed the gap in no time. He struck me as someone who didn’t back down from danger. Like a cop or firefighter or combat pilot. His facial wrinkles crisscrossed on his high cheekbones and deepened when he squinted against the sun. His hair was trimmed close to his scalp and was pure white. He looked to be over sixty years old. He wore a beige shirt tucked into belted brown pants and his short sleeves only partially covered well-defined biceps.

I walked over to meet him, preventing him from getting any closer to the body. “Vernon Carey?”

He met my eyes and nodded while he studied me. “I’ve gone by Dodger since my second mission in ‘Nam. And being an aerial applicator is damn near as dangerous at that was, believe it or not. Dodger still fits.” He leaned his head to the left and glanced at the body, still staked to the ground. “In all my years in the business, I’ve never had anything close to this.”

“I’m Sergeant Corinne Aleckson, this is Detective Dawes, and Deputy Carlson,” I said as Smoke stepped in beside me and Brian walked over to join us.

Dodger lifted his right hand, noticed we all had latex gloves on, and plopped it on his left shoulder instead.

Smoke and I pulled memo pads and pens from our pockets.

“You recognize the victim?” I asked.

“He looks vaguely familiar, but can’t say I do. No.”

“Let’s start with your full name, date of birth, address, and phone number for our reports,” Smoke said.

Carey recited the information like he was still in the military; formally, rote. We recorded his words. He was sixty-two years old and lived in the country, outside of Oak Lea.

“Give us a brief narrative of your day, what led up to your discovery here,” Smoke instructed.

“I got a call from Willie Noding, the crop owner, a couple days ago asking me to apply some fungicide. I’ve been watching the weather. It can’t rain for three hours after spraying, or it’s a waste. Can’t have wind, or the chemicals get carried where you don’t want ’em. This afternoon was about perfect. Willie brought the chemical over yesterday and I was loaded and ready to roll today.”

“He knew you’d be going out today?” Smoke continued with the questions.

“Yes, sir.” He stopped in thought. “I called about noon to be sure we were good to go.”

“Anyone else know you’d be here today?”

Dodger sent Smoke a questioning look. “Willie would have to let his family know, I’m sure. And I filed with the airport, of course. Anybody around here could have seen me. I’m pretty hard to miss. My plane’s a bright yellow Air Tractor. All of the farmers around here know me and my plane.”

Smoke nodded. “So you took off from the Emerald Lake airport at what time?”

“Fourteen-thirty hours. Two-thirty.”

“Go on,” Smoke said.

“I got here about fourteen-thirty-eight, then I always do a couple of circles, checking out the fields before I start applying the chemical. I fly as close as four feet and up to ten feet above the crops, going about a hundred and thirty miles an hour. I can’t afford surprises, like wires or poles or windmills, or even a big animal that’s lying in a pasture next to a field that decides to stand up. A guy can’t memorize every wire from farm to farm. I fly ten hours a day in the busy season.”

“But not today?”

“No, this was my only run today. It’s slowing down. By June, there won’t be much ‘til August when the herbicide treatments go for a few weeks.”

“So you were taking your look-see?”

“Yes, sir. I was about twelve feet up when I flew over this area and thought, ‘What the heck!’ I thought it was a scarecrow that had toppled over, or that some kids had dragged here. I took a lower swoop, then another, and couldn’t believe my eyes. I flew right back to the airport and called the sheriff’s department. Then I phoned Willie, the farmer. He was up in Saint Cloud, but said he’d head back right away.”

“Did you see anyone else in the area?”

“No. I mean cars driving on county thirty-five there, but I didn’t notice anyone else around.”

“Okay.” Smoke reached in his breast pocket, pulled out a business card, and handed it to Carey. “Suffice it to say, you won’t be spraying chemicals on this field today.”

Carey took the card and half shrugged.

“And if you think of anything else, give me a call. Or Sergeant Aleckson here.”

I fished out a card and gave it to Carey.

“That’s all you need from me, then?” Carey pursed his lips and frowned.

Smoke drew his own eyebrows together. “One more thing. We’ll need you to keep this quiet for a day or two. Give us time to identify the victim, talk to his family. You made about the worst possible discovery and you’ll want to talk about it, so confide in someone, but we’d appreciate it if you don’t tell everyone in your e-mail account, or get in any online chat rooms just yet.”

Carey’s left brow went up, indicating it was the last thing he’d do. “Yes, sir. I can keep a secret.”

As Carey turned and walked away, Smoke’s cell phone rang. “Detective Dawes. . . . Sheriff, . . . No, still waiting on Melberg. . . . Unknown male, forties, hands and feet bound and tied to stakes that are driven in the ground. Don’t know what killed him, but the scene is way outside the realms of natural. . . . We’ll be here a while. . . . Will do.”

Winnebago County Sheriff’s Department policy dictated that the sheriff be notified immediately in the event of an unnatural death in the county. Sheriff Dennis Twardy took that one step forward and personally showed up at most of those scenes. He said it reminded him why we were doing what we were doing and helped him maintain a high level of empathy for victims’ families.

“Twardy was at his association of sheriffs’ meeting in Saint Paul when communications phoned him. Sounds like he’d rather be here than there.”

It was my turn to take a phone call. “Hey, Todd.”

“Corky. The crime lab’s here. Where do you want them?”

I relayed the question to Smoke.

“Tell them to leave the vehicle out on the road, for now. Have them grab the essentials and walk in.”

“Did you get that?”

“Copy.” Mason said.

“Who’s assigned to major crimes this week?” Smoke asked.

“Weber and Zubinski,” I said.

He jutted his jaw out in a half yawn. “Isn’t this Mandy’s first day back?”

“Yeah, the chief deputy thought he’d ease her back into duty by assigning her to a partner on major crimes before she goes back solo on the road.”

Smoke shook his head. “Not knowing we’d have a very major crime right off the bat. Hope this isn’t too much for her.”

“We’ll watch her, help her out,” Carlson said.

Amanda Zubinski had been romantically involved with a deputy who turned out to be a bad cop. An evil cop. She had narrowly escaped death by members of his cult. Nearly everyone in the department thought she would quit, including me. But after intensive counseling, and encouragement from fellow deputies, she decided to stay and carry on.

Carlson made a “hah” sound. “But I gotta wonder how she and Weber are going to get though the week without killing each other.”

“Weber actually went to see her a few times when she was on leave–” I started.

“Weber?” His eyebrows shot up. “I didn’t hear that.”

“And they seem to be getting along fairly well. ”

Carlson raised his elbow toward my arm. “It seems like you and Zubinski are getting along better, too.”

“We are. Actually, I hate to admit it, but it started when we had our famous team building exercise. It reminded me–and rightly so–we are on the same team, after all. And that unbelievably bad experience where she almost died was enough to push us past our differences. I think that’s what happened with Vince and Mandy. I don’t think either he or I was ever more scared for another human being than when we discovered Mandy was about to be killed.”

Carlson shook his head at the memory, then nodded. “That makes three of us.”

Deputies Vince Weber and Amanda Zubinski came into view from the north. They were about the same height–five-nine or five-ten, but the similarity ended there. Vince had a square body, and his head appeared to sit directly on his shoulders. His facial features were on the round side–eyes, nose, mouth, chin. Mandy, on the other hand, had a lean frame and a long face with a long Roman nose. I considered her cropped, thick, auburn hair her best feature.

When the crime lab team had almost reached us, a four-wheeler came at us from the south. Carlson was closest and held up his hand, directing him to stop. A ruddy faced man with rust colored hair stopped the vehicle and jumped to the ground. Years of working in the sun was evidenced by the deep wrinkles on his forehead and cheeks. But they didn’t detract from his otherwise youthful appearance. He jogged toward the body. “What in the hell?”

Carlson stepped in front of him, stopping him in his tracks. “Whoa. Who are you?”

“Sorry. Willie, William Noding. This is my field. Dodger told me what he saw here. I thought the chemicals had finally gotten to him and he was seeing things.” He strained for a better look, then paled. “Oh, my god!”

“You know the victim?” Smoke asked.

Noding gave an affirmative nod. “Gage Leder, my, my, brother-in-law. My wife’s brother. We’re not exactly the best of friends, but I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy.” He swiped his hand over the back of his neck, then across his face. “My wife’s gonna freak.”

Christine Husom is the Second Wind Publishing author of Murder in Winnebago County, Buried in Wolf Lake, An Altar by the River, and The Noding Field Mystery, to be released in Fall, 2012.

The Inverted Detective Story by Christine Husom

Richard Austin Freeman is credited with creating the first inverted detective story. His collection of short stories, The Singing Bone,was published in 1912. I found this quote by him on Wikipedia, “Some years ago I devised, as an experiment, an inverted detective story in two parts. The first part was a minute and detailed description of a crime, setting forth the antecedents, motives, and all attendant circumstances. The reader had seen the crime committed, knew all about the criminal, and was in possession of all the facts. It would have seemed that there was nothing left to tell, but I calculated that the reader would be so occupied with the crime that he would overlook the evidence. And so it turned out. The second part, which described the investigation of the crime, had to most readers the effect of new matter.”

The first three books of my Winnebago County Mystery series are a modified version of what Freeman described. He was more intentional in the construction of his stories; I was more organic. When I sat down to write Murder in Winnebago County, it seemed the most natural beginning was a look inside the mind of the soon-to-be killer. She had carried hatred in her heart for ten years, following her son’s suicide in prison. So when the opportunity for revenge presented itself, she goes into plotting mode.

Instead of watching her commit the actual crime, however, I switched to protagonist Sergeant Corinne “Corky” Aleckson being called to help locate a missing hospital patient, after the fact. When the body of the judge was found, although there is no obvious evidence of foul play, Corky’s instincts tell her something is off.

Then I switched back to the antagonist relishing in the successful murder–the steps she had taken, and how she had made it look like a suicide. Or so she thought. Feeling rather pleased with herself, she determined she should kill all the principals involved in her son’s criminal case. And her short killing spree began.

Writers use many methods when creating their stories. Some follow a basic formula expected in specific genres. For me, the mystery in the first three books was in how the Winnebago Sheriff’s Department would determine who the bad guys were. And I wanted to give the readers a deeper look into the minds of the killers, their motivations, their backgrounds, and what led them to act as they did.

That was the first three books. Then I sat down to write The Noding Field Mystery, and the inverted detective model didn’t work. It may have been because of the crime. It may have been the number of suspects. Or a combination of the two. So the fourth book in the series is a more of a traditional mystery/police procedural. As I plan the next two books, I’m not sure which way I’ll go. The fifth may best fit in the traditional model, and the sixth will be more of a thriller involving the nuclear power plant in Winnebago County. The mystery of writing a mystery.

I’d love to hear about your writing, and what led you to your genre and methods.

Christine Husom is the author of Murder in Winnebago County, Buried in Wolf Lake, An Altar by the River, and The Noding Field Mystery, to be released in the fall, 2012.

Curious about Cozies by Christine Husom

I’m hearing more and more about cozy mysteries. So how do cozies fit in in the mystery genre? How do they compare to the three classifications that sound like you’re making eggs–soft-boiled, medium boiled, and hard boiled? Or the police procedural or suspense thriller?

When someone described what a cozy mystery was, my first thought was, “Oh, Murder She Wrote, with amateur sleuth Jessica Fletcher. Murder She Wrote was a television series in the 80s and 90s starring Angela Lansbury. Her character was a bright, widowed, retired English teacher who had become a successful mystery writer. The setting was a costal town in Maine where people died suspiciously on a very regular basis. Jessica was the one who solved the crimes/mysteries despite police involvement.

What are the elements of a cozy? The setting for the cozy mystery is often a smaller community where everybody potentially knows your name, who you are, and much about your personal life and business.

The murders are never graphically described, and there isn’t the blood or gore found in a more hard-boiled mystery.

There is no explicit sex. If it seems a couple is moving in that direction, the scene fades-out, and details are left to the imaginations of the readers.

The protagonist is intelligent, usually with a college degree. She may have left her hometown for a successful career, then returned for any number of reasons. Perhaps there was a scandal she was involved in and she flees her old life. Perhaps it is to take over a family business, or help with an ill, or aging family member. Although she is not a police officer or detective, she has some relationship with someone who is. That may or may not be a good thing. Police don’t always take the protagonist seriously.

Character development is an important component. Supporting characters in the cozy are often eccentric, or wacky, or gossipy, or memorable in other ways. And nosy town folk often prove very helpful when gathering details that put pieces of the puzzle together for solving the crime.

The plots is important. There are twists, turns, and intriguing developments along the way to solving the along the way. They tend to be fast-paced, with good humor and funny moments.

Many cozy mysteries are written as a series and center around a theme, such as cooking, knitting, crafts, hiking antiques. The cooking and crafting books include recipes and patterns for the readers.

Cozies are becoming more and more popular, particularly among women who looking for a lighter read that is entertaining, but keeps them thinking at the same time. They enjoy following the protagonist, and all she gets tangled up in.

That being said, many men love them, too. Maybe we need more male protagonists in cozies. A character like the way Peter Falk played Columbo comes to my mind. He was astute and bright, but looked disheveled and appeared to be bumbling. But Columbo was a detective, and he’d need a different occupation in a cozy. Maybe he’s returned to his hometown from a career with a city newspaper or magazine, either to retire, or to take over the family newspaper. Because of his seeming confused state, the bad guys would never suspect he’d be the one to figure out who they were and help bring them justice.

Do you have a cozy series you follow, or particular authors you enjoy? I’d love to hear about them. Christine Husom is the author of Murder in Winnebago County, Buried in Wolf Lake, and An Altar by the River.

Writing a Novel Series: Finding a Balance Between Fresh and Familiar by Christine Husom

I have enjoyed reading a number of series novels over the years, but had never thought of  writing one myself. Until I wrote Murder in Winnebago County, that is. The first book of my Winnebago County Mystery Thriller series was inspired by a tragic death, and the less than satisfactory explanation of exactly how it happened.

After a year of almost obsessive thinking about the death, it hit me. What if it wasn’t an accident? What if someone had deliberately hurt him? Who would that person be? What would be his/her motivation for murder? I soon thought of a number of characters who lived in the fictional Winnebago County in central Minnesota. As a former Wright County Sheriff’s Department officer, the semi-rural county was a natural setting for the story.

About halfway through writing Murder in Winnebago County, I knew I wouldn’t be able to retire the characters after only one case. They had become people I thought about almost as much as the live ones I was closest to. Dramatic incidents from my days with the sheriff’s department came to mind, and I formulated basic plots for the next two books.

What I learned from research and experience is three key elements for success in a story or book series are: creating realistic characters who continue to evolve with each book; writing an ending that leaves the reader wanting more; and letting the reader know what happened in a previous book without getting bogged down in lengthy descriptions.

• Create characters readers want to follow and/or have a relationship with:

Write a background for each of your main characters as a base for their motivations, their beliefs, their morals. Much of who they are is based on their life experiences. Not all aspects of their past lives need to be included in the story, but may come to light in a subsequent novel.

How do they feel? What do they look like? Do they have a pet?  What are their strengths, their talents, their fears, their strengths, their vulnerabilities? How are they connected to the other characters? What role do they play in the story?

Create characters who become living, breathing, thinking, talking people who are interacting with other characters, going to jobs, falling in love, committing crimes, et cetera, for your readers. People want to see how your characters react under pressure, what they do when they get knocked down, how they handle compliments.

The protagonist and main character in the Winnebago County Mystery Thriller series is  Sergeant Corinne “Corky” Aleckson, a young sergeant with the sheriff’s department. Corky is dedicated to her work and loyal to her family and friends. Her longtime challenge has been pursuing her dream career without causing undo worry for her over-protective mother.

Corky has great instincts, but recognizes every day on the job is a learning experience. She gets called to task by the sheriff from time to time. She works closely with her friend and mentor, Detective Elton “Smoke” Dawes. They have a mostly comfortable, sometimes uncomfortable, relationship. A mutual attraction, which they push beneath the surface, occasionally rises.

While Corky is closely involved with family and friends, Smoke is more of a loner, a self-protective device he put into place following a failed long-term relationship. Although he sees his brothers and their children fairly regularly, he spends the majority of his free time fishing on his private lake, strumming his guitar, and playing with his dog.

• Write an ending that leaves the reader wanting more.

The plot of novels, in general, and mysteries, in particular, start with a problem or situation that needs to be resolved. Each plot points builds on the next until the story reaches its highest point–the climax–which is near the end of the book.

Readers need to be satisfied the book has ended, so tie up, or at least address, loose ends. I usually do a one or two page summary, answering questions that were raised during the course of the story.

• Letting the reader know what happened in a previous book without getting bogged down in lengthy descriptions.

This is the most challenging of the three elements. Each book in a series needs to written as a stand-alone book, yet fit into the series. Background information on the characters, laid out in the first book, needs to be shortened to a sentence or two in subsequent books.

In the second and third books of my Winnebago County series, Alvie Eisner, the antagonist from the first book reappears. In the fourth book, to be published later this year, Alvie Eisner is mentioned, and the antagonist from the second book reappears.

Two ways I address past issues and introduce characters from a previous story are through conversations between the characters and tapping into Corky’s thoughts about the situations or the people.

Although I hadn’t planned to write a novel series, the Winnebago County Mystery Thrillers has been fun. Each book presents its own set of challenges, but also reunites me with both familiar characters and introduces me to fresh characters and plots. And they constantly surprise me. My bad guys and gals may be spiteful and frightful, but  they give my Winnebago County Sheriff’s Department officers job security when they commit their crimes–another case to solve.

Christine Husom is the author of Murder in Winnebago County, Buried in Wolf Lake, and An Altar by the River.

Cross-pollination Marketing by Christine Husom

The Twin Cities Sisters in Crime put together an Internet marketing workshop for crime writers, which I attended last Saturday. We were able to list ahead of time the various topics we were interested in, ie., websites, Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads.

We discussed the value of an effective website, and whether or not to have a blog feature on it. Some authors have a  blogsite, but don’t have an official website. I had read some time ago that the important thing about a blog is to be regular with it–whether it is once a day, or week, or month–something I have failed to do on my own website.

One of the participants said having a particular theme, or subject matter, is a way to bring readers in. Another way is to read others’ blogs and to leave comments. I mentioned the importance of attaching tags to your blog, containing keywords that will be appear on a search of a variety of topics. If you are quoting Charles Dickens, add him as a tag, and someone doing a search on him may visit your blog.

All of us were familiar with Facebook. Of course. Some of us were more active than others. One woman said it was important to change your privacy settings about every six weeks because Facebook is constantly upgrading. The question was, how do we connect with readers? I suggested joining groups of people with common interests. Another way is holding a give-away contest for your books. And share the link to your blog when you have a new post.

I had been at a training session two weeks before and the facilitator said you can post something on Facebook once or twice a day before people start ignoring you, but you can post on Twitter every fifteen minutes because it is so dynamic. People tweet for different reasons, business and personal. As authors, we want to build a readership for our books. So tweet and  retweet others’ tweets that you like.

WordPress is a wonderful place to read and post blogs, and Goodreads is a great site to connect with writers and readers alike. Many authors are active on Gather and/or Crimespace. Pinterest is being used by libraries more and more.

Somewhere in the middle of the workshop, as my head was spinning with information, I searched for a word to describe how authors could connect with readers. It turned out to be two words joined to make one: Cross-pollination. Be active on as many sites, and with as many people, as your schedule allows.

One man (yes, we have brothers in our group, too) came to the workshop later in the day, after he finished teaching a morning class. We summarized the topics we had discussed and he said, “Cross-pollination.” Maybe there was a spirit in that library meeting room who had whispered the word in both our ears that day.

When I got home, I looked up cross-pollination. The basic definition, according to the on-line Free Dictionary is, “Cross-pollination is the fertilization by transfer of pollen from the anthers of one flower to the stigma of another.” The antonym is self-pollination. Hmm. That got me thinking. As authors and readers, it’s a win-win situation to promote the works of other authors along with our own–we want people to continue to read books. We do this when we write reviews, add books and ratings to our bookshelves, or interview others on our blogs. This is certainly not a new concept in marketing, but one that bears repeating. Let’s all practice some cross-pollination.

Christine Husom is the author of the Winnebago County Mystery Thriller Series, Murder in Winnebago County, Buried in Wolf Lake, and An Altar by the River. 

What About That Middle? by Christine Husom

Almost everyone who has written a fiction novel has a similar experience, often about mid-point, but it could happen anywhere in the manuscript. It’s the “NOW what should I write?” moment. The moment that can span into hours, or days, or cause you to abandon your work completely. You know what I’m talking about.

You panic because you didn’t expect it to happen with this book. The concept and characters are clear in your mind. You know the beginning. You know the end. You have the key plot points. You sat down and slammed out the first chapters with relative ease. Then you hit the wall.

You put something down to fill the shockingly blank white space, but it sounds dumb, so you delete it. You decide to jump ahead to the next chapter, but you’re no longer sure what the next chapter should be. And to make matters worse, in that state of mind, everything you’ve written in the book so far seems stupid.

Hold it right there. Turn off those negative thoughts, and focus on why you’re writing the book in the first place. It might be for self-satisfaction. It might be because you have a story you believe has the potential to be the next great American novel. It might be because you have a following of readers who love your books. Any of those reasons, and many more, give validity to finishing your book.

What will enable you get that next bit on paper? I’ve tried a number of things when I reach a standstill. Maybe one of them will help you.

• Talk to someone, and ask their opinion. Give him a summary of what you’ve written, and where you want to go. That person may have an idea you can’t use, or may not have an idea at all, but it could get your creative juices flowing again. Like any problem, when you tell someone else, it doesn’t seem so bad.
• Ask yourself if you’re bored. Are you at that stopping point because the last scene, or action was off somehow. Maybe you don’t like one of your characters and that’s slowing you down. Reread what you’ve written with an open mind and see what happens.
• You have your plot carefully outlined, but you don’t like the way it’s shaping up. Give yourself permission to change things up. My characters have taken me on some unexpected journeys during the course of a story. And their surprising actions or spoken words are better than the ones I had planned.
• Sit down with a blank piece of paper and do some free-style writing. Choose a word, i.e. red, and write without conscious thought for a minute or two. This simple activity can help get the creative juices flowing.
• Read another author’s book, and tell yourself, “She did it, and so can I.”
• Go for a run, or walk, or do arm circles, or some other physical activity. I have mentally written many scenes, and worked out countless character and scene problems while jogging. I have titled my books, named characters and figured out why they are so named, etc. There is something to be said for releasing those endorphins.  Two great advantages–they’re free and easy to access.
• Jump ahead to a later point in the book. For the mystery I’m working on, I wrote the end first because it came to me, and I needed to get it on paper. In another book, I wrote several scenes and plugged them in when the time seemed right. Having a few scenes in your file might give you what you need when you’re stuck.

There are some hopefully helpful ideas. What techniques have you used when you’re stuck? I’d love to hear about them.

Christine Husom is the author of Murder in Winnebago County, Buried in Wolf Lake, and An Altar by the River.

Creating a Storyboard by Christine Husom

A number of years ago I took a class at the Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis, taught by Mary Carroll Moore. The title was “How to Plan, Develop, and Write a Book” and the goal was to do that in six months. Moore provided a wealth of information and introduced me to the concept of storyboarding.

Storyboarding chapters is a tool to create logical flow after you have determined what your book is about, and why you are writing it. It can be used in support of a plot outline, but I tend to use it in place of an outline for my mystery thrillers. That being said, many genres of books would be virtually impossible to write without an outline.

For example, I just finished reading Uprising by Dean Urdahl. It is a novel set in Minnesota in 1862 during the Civil War, and is centered on the Sioux Uprising. Urdahl partners fictional characters and events with historical facts. It is organized, wonderfully written, and must have required detailed outlining.

To create a storyboard, take a sheet of paper and draw twelve boxes–three rows of four, or four rows of three. In the first box, write down the question the book asks. In the last box, write the answer to that question. The other boxes are the plot points–the tools you are using–that lead to the eventual answer at the end. In fiction, particularly in the mystery genre, the author uses the points to build suspense until the final crisis, or climax, near the end of the book.

I spoke to a group of fourth graders on writing and brought along a white board with twelve blank boxes to use at the end of my talk. After I explained how we could use a storyboard to write a book together, ideas flowed from those young minds, and their hands shot up. Within minutes, they had a main character–a rabbit–and created a rather wild tale of a his adventures in Alaska. It was not only fun for them, but also served as a good visual illustration of a way to map out a book.

Have any of you ever used a storyboard when planning your book? What other tools have you used? I’d love to hear about them.

Christine Husom is the author of Murder in Winnebago County, Buried in Wolf Lake, and An Altar by the River.

My Parents’ Special Christmas Present

Sixty-five years ago today, my parents got the phone call they had been waiting, hoping, and praying for for many months: the adoption agency had a baby girl for them. Nancy was a blue-eyed, dark haired, nearly three-month-old beauty that captured their hearts and completed their family. They thought.

When the day began, they had no idea it would end with them becoming the proud parents of a new daughter. Mom was busy preparing for Christmas, and Dad was at work in his law office. Whatever task they were engaged in was forgotten as they flew into action, finding a crib, buying baby clothes and other needed items.

When Mom and Dad got married, they planned to have a big family. My father came from a family of thirteen kids, my mother from twelve (ten made it to adulthood). After years of disappointment, the doctor told my mother it would be a miracle if she ever had a baby. Then a surprise pregnancy ended in an early miscarriage. Another blow to the young couple. They decided adopting a child would be a wonderful option. The downside was, it was a lengthy process, even in those days.

Nancy brought them joy and made them want more children. The adoption agency called again when Nancy was close to two years old to say they had a baby boy for my parents. It was bittersweet news because my mother had learned she was pregnant. It was common practice at that time to actually take adopted babies back if their parents had a biological one within a certain time. My parents were worried that would happen if Mom carried her baby to full-term, so they did not adopt the little boy.

My brother was born when Nancy was two and a half, followed by me, another sister and another brother. Yes, that puts me in the middle with an older sister, older brother, younger sister and younger brother. My parents welcomed each of us as a bonus blessing. Four more miracles.

I can’t imagine life without Nancy, and the rest of my siblings. I love and respect and truly appreciate each one. But I have to confess, when growing up, to being a little jealous of Nancy on one day of the year. In addition to the gift on her birthday, my parents also gave her a gift on the anniversary of her adoption date. December twentieth is an important date for all of us. There is no doubt Nancy was meant to be with us.

Christine Husom is the author of Murder in Winnebago County, Buried in Wolf Lake, and An Altar by the River.

The Unlikely Mourner by Christine Husom

From time to time, we all find ourselves caught up in a situation we’d rather not be in. Some people–like my husband–are awkward situation magnets.

Last summer he came home from work and we chatted for a few minutes, then he said, “I had kind of a strange thing happen to me today.”

“Oh?” I said, expecting him to tell me about an encounter with a client at work.

“Well, I stopped for eggs and noticed extra cars in the driveway and some people down by the barn.”

He would stop at an area farm from time to time where you are on your honor to take eggs out of the garage fridge and leave money in a lock box. “I wasn’t sure if I should leave or not, then Sally (the egg lady) saw me, and called out to me.”

“‘Dan, come and join us, we’re having a little service for Ron. We’re burying his ashes.’”

Dan didn’t know Sally’s husband had died, and the very last place on earth he wanted to be at the moment was at his burial. He made some polite little noises about letting them have some privacy, but Sally insisted. “Come on, meet my kids.”

The next thing Dan knew, he was hugging strangers, offering condolences, and standing on the edge of a trench with the rest of the mourners.

“What did you do?” I asked.

“I bowed my head and folded my hands while they talked about what a great guy Ron was.”

I couldn’t help it. I sympathized because he was obviously traumatized, and I felt badly for the family who had lost their loved one, but I started laughing. But not loudly, and not belly laughing.

“And they had Ron’s dog’s ashes, too. He got hit by a car. And they talked about how they knew he was sitting on Ron’s lap in Heaven.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t call me the minute you left. I would have called you immediately. And you waited ten whole minutes after you got home to tell me!”

He shrugged and smiled. Telling me the story eased his burden and gave him a new perspective. He experienced, and gracefully handled, an unusual situation. And the family seemed glad he was there.

Have you ever found yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time? Or was it the right place to be, after all?

Christine Husom is the author of Murder in Winnebago County, Buried in Wolf Lake, and An Altar by the River.

The Noding Field Mystery beginning

I am hopelessly behind on my fourth book in the Winnebago County Mystery Thriiler Series. I keep wondering what is going to happen next to delay me, but being “homeless” for the past three months has been a particular challenge. Here are the first few pages. Sorry the formatting is off–I corrected it three times and it kept reverting to no indents, or extra line between paragraphs, but hopefully it is not too difficult to read. I welcome all critiques. Thank you!

Beginning of Chapter One

“This is harsh,” Carlson said.
Deputies Brian Carlson and Todd Mason had arrived at the scene a minute before calling me. I was their shift supervisor, the evening patrol sergeant for the Winnebago County Sheriff’s Department. The three of us were standing in the middle of a soybean field staring at the remains of a naked forty-something man. He was lying on his back and his chin was tucked into his right shoulder in what looked like a self-defense position. His arms and legs were stretched to the limits in exaggerated Vs. Each hand and foot was bound and tied to four foot long metal fence stakes that were driven into the ground.
“Not the way I’d want to go,” Mason said.
The crows we had chased away were caw-cawing nearby. They were feasting on the body before our arrival put a stop to that. One swooped in low, close to our heads, then dropped to the ground and partially disappeared in the crops to join his feathered friends.
“A murder of crows. Just what we need,” Carlson said.
“Sounds like those birds are telling us to leave or else. Murder,” Mason said, trying out his best menacing-sounding voice.
“They’re mad because we interrupted their meal.” I surveyed the damage the crows had done on the man’s face. “Ah, forget I said that.”
“Since we’re responsible to preserve the scene, if they start attacking, they’re history.” Carlson patted his sidearm.
Mason nodded. “Justifiable birdcide.”
“Birdcide?” I said.
Mason grinned and shrugged.
We turned our attention back to the victim. He was a little under six feet, trim, not overly muscular. Maybe a professional who watched his diet, but didn’t work out. His dark brown hair was wavy and thinning. It was messy and matted to his head, most likely caused by excessive sweating during whatever trauma he had endured in the events leading up to being tied and left in a soybean field.
“Wonder how long he’s been here? What do you think, Corky?” Mason stood five inches taller than my five-foot-five height and blocked the sun.
I moved out of his shadow for a better view. “I’ll leave that up to the coroner, but it doesn’t look like very long. Less than twenty-four hours, I’d guess.”
“Yeah, it doesn’t take long for a body to start getting stinky,” Carlson said.
The crisp air of the May afternoon did not mask the odor of decomposition.
We stayed about three feet back from the body so as not to contaminate the immediate area around it. I held my breath and leaned in as close as possible to study the marks on his body. “He didn’t pull against the restraints enough to draw blood on his wrists and ankles, which seems odd. That twine is rough and would cut his skin if he twisted and tried to escape. And there is faint bruising on his upper arms and shins below his knees. See those lines?” I pointed out the two-inch-wide areas.
“Tied up?” Carlson said.
“Maybe taped up. That’s about duct tape width,” Mason said.
I moved closer to the man‘s arms. “Could be. Good observation, but why change from tape to twine? It doesn’t look like he was out here long before he died.” I leaned in as close as possible. “But what killed him? No frontal gunshot or knife wounds, and no blood on the ground around him.”
“Unless wild creatures licked it up,” Carlson said.
I shook my head. “There should be some sort of animal tracks.” I pulled a pen from my pocket and used it to spread the crops apart to study the ground. Mason and Carlson did the same.
“There are crow prints just barely visible in between the rows, and next to his body,” Mason said.
The longer I looked the more I found. “I see that.”
Carlson put his pen back in his pocket. “Those crows really did a number on his eyes and mouth.”
Mason stood up and crossed his arms on his chest. “The easy pickings. That wouldn’t take a few of them very long at all.”
I looked at the surroundings. We were perhaps a half mile from the nearest grouping of trees. “It’s strange the coyotes and other furry, pawed critters hadn’t found him yet.”
“It is. So far it’s flies, ants, and crows, from the way it looks. Those pesky flies are always first.” Mason screwed up his face.
Carlson swatted a fly off his arm. “Huh. No human footprints. Evident, anyway. He didn’t get here and tie himself up all by his lonesome. Someone covered their tracks.”
“No vehicle tracks close by, either,” I said.
My cell phone rang. It was Detective Elton “Smoke” Dawes. “Hey, Smoke.”
“Where exactly are you? I’m on Thirty-Five and just passed Forsythe. I don’t see any squad cars.”
“Take the next field access south. We’re about a tenth of a mile down. The land dips quite a bit so our cars probably aren’t visible from the road. We left them just under the crest where the field starts.”
“Okay, I’m turning in as we speak.”
He was gone before I could respond. “Dawes will be here in a minute.”
Mason crossed his arms on his chest. “Melberg can’t get here too soon.” Dr. Gordon Melberg was the county coroner.
Carlson stopped his soil examination and rose to his feet. “Our guy’s not going anywhere.”
“And the sun can’t hurt him,” Mason said.
I wrinkled my nose. “Except to speed up the process. You guys know I have a problem with maggots, and they seem to be multiplying by the minute.”
“They’re efficient little critters that have a rightful place in the ecosystem,” Detective Dawes said behind me. That was fast.
I glanced over my shoulder. “Yes, they are, and yes they do, but I’d rather not be a witness to their efficiency.”
“She never got over Maggot Man.”
Mason was referring to a case we had responded to when I was a rookie deputy. A daughter who lived out-of-state called the Winnebago County Sheriff’s Department and requested a welfare check on her father whom she hadn’t been able to reach for two days. It was a hot summer day and I was the first one on the scene. There was an odor so putrid coming from inside the residence, even the house couldn’t hold it in. I called for back-up because I didn’t know what to expect. Suicide. Homicide. One body. Two bodies.
Mason arrived a few minutes later. He pulled a small plastic container filled with mentholated ointment from his pants pocket, opened it, swiped out a finger full, and rubbed it under his nose. He offered me the ointment, and I did the same. We entered the house and I was in no way prepared for the sight of the deceased man covered with crawling, eating maggots. He had little flesh left.
My eyes burned from the death smell, even with the mentholated protection, and I breathed as shallowly as possible, which was nearly impossible. Mason waved me back outside. He called communications to tell them our initial findings and ask for the coroner. After a few breaths of outside air, we went back in and checked the rest of the house. Thankfully, there were no other bodies. I had been at many death scenes since, but that one stood out as one of the worst because of the stink and the maggots.
“Sergeant?” I tuned in at the sound of Smoke’s voice.
“Thinking of Maggot Man?” Mason said with a wry grin.
I did my best to mirror his expression in place of an answer.
Smoke knelt a short distance from the body and studied it. “Someone believed this guy really done them wrong, looks like.”
Carlson nodded. “Or was into some kind of weird ritual gone bad.”
“We had enough of rituals to last a lifetime in that big case last month,” Mason said.
Our facial expressions indicated there was no need for further comment on that subject.
Smoke changed positions for a view on the other side of the body. “Doesn’t look like there was a struggle here, and it seems highly unlikely he’d be involved in kinky sex out in the middle of a field full of crops.”
“I knew a girl once who–”
“A lot of us have, Carlson.” Smoke effectively saved us from a story Mason and I had heard before. “What’s Melberg’s ETA?” Smoke asked.
I looked at my watch. “Maybe ten. Communications said he was in his office. It’s about a twenty, twenty-five minute drive.”
“How about the guy who found him? The crop duster?” Smoke glanced up at the sky.
“He flew to the Emerald Lake Airport and landed his plane there. That’s where he called from. I talked to him about ten minutes ago and asked him to meet us here. I think it’s the last place he wants to be, but I knew we’d be tied up here for a while. ”
“Along with our victim,” Mason deadpanned. I held my smile inside.
Smoke ignored Mason. “No doubt. There’s no need to bring the pilot too close to the body. We’ll get his statement and send him on his merry way. And no more crop dusting in this field today.”
I nodded. “Thank you. What would they be spraying for at this time of year, I wonder?”
Smoke looked at the crops. “Fertilizer, maybe.”
“I don’t smell any chemicals,” I said.
“Thankfully. I don’t relish tromping around in a field full of fresh chemicals.” Mason faked a cough.
Smoke nodded. “And depending on what they are, how they could compromise the scene.”
“Not likely insecticide or there’d be dead flies and maggots.” Mason again.
Carlson indicated his head toward our winged audience in the nearby crops. “And the crows wouldn’t like it, either.”
“No sense speculating–we’ll ask the pilot when he gets here,” Smoke said.
I waved my hand in the direction of the body. “How the bad guy got our victim here is what I want to know. The crops are flattened in the area immediately around him, like there was activity, but like you said, no deeper depressions that would indicate a struggle. So he was subdued.”
Smoke raised his eyebrows. “Or already dead.”
I took a closer look at the ground further out from the body and spotted something. “The ground really dried out after that last rain, so it’s fairly hard. But there are faint depressions in the soil from the body westward. The shadows from the crops makes them hard to see.”
Carlson bent over to look. “Maybe the crows made them, if a lot of them were waiting for their turn for a snack.”
I shook my head. “Almost looks like a bunch of bird prints, but if you stand back, you can see there is a fairly defined pattern. Some of the depressions are deeper, makes it easier to pick them out.”
“Oh, yeah, I see what you mean,” he said.
I followed the prints across the dirt between the rows, past another row of crops to another line of dirt that ran between the rows. I waved the others over and pointed at a path. “Looks like he could have been dragged here on something.”
Smoke nodded. “Ah, the evidence of how he got here, directionally-speaking, that is.” The created path, about two and a half feet wide, ran between two rows of crops, starting about seven feet from where the man’s body lay, and ran north.
The three of us wandered close behind him and studied the drag marks.
Mason screwed up his face. “Bigfoot drag him?”
“Bigfoot?” Smoke said.
“Look at those depressions. Those are big feet.”
“Bigfoot is always barefoot, right? And they’re not foot-shaped, or even shoe-shaped,” I said.
Smoke crouched down again, slid his readers from to top of his head to his nose, and stared at a large mark left in the dirt. “Yes, they are. Think outside the box here.”
I squatted down next to Smoke. “Snowshoes. I’ve never seen them in anything but snow before. Looks like two different pairs. The one pattern, especially, looks like a bunch of bird feet.”
“Bingo.” He gave his thigh a slap.
“So they had him on some sort of a sled maybe, one without runners, and dragged him in on that. Then they stopped here.” I pointed to support my words. “They must have carried him over there because there are no drag marks.”
“And the deeper depressions were made when they were carrying him. And they were stepping sideways going in. Like one had his upper body and one had his lower body. And it’s hard to see, but they were walking straight going back.”
“He had to have been drugged, or passed out for some reason. That is really bizarre to go to all that trouble to bring him out in the middle of nowhere. For what?”
Good question.
Smoke focused on Carlson. “Brian, get some pictures of the scene before anything is compromised.”
“Ten-four.” He left to get a camera from his squad car.

Christine Husom is the author of Murder in Winnebago County, Buried in Wolf Lake, and An Altar by the River.