Rhys Celebrates Pub Day for THE EDGE OF DREAMS.

RHYS BOWEN: I'm cheating on my 'What We're Writing' Day' and turning into 'what I've written' day but I have a good excuse: today I'm celebrating the release of my 14th Molly Murphy book, called THE EDGE OF DREAMS.

And if I'm allowed a tiny brag, Suspense magazine review starts with "Rhys Bowen hits this one out of the park."

It's probably the most complicated and suspenseful Molly book that I've written. Two stories, actually: Daniel trying to stop a clever serial killer whose victims seem to have nothing in common and who sends taunting notes to the police, while Molly's friends are trying to help a young girl who was the only survivor of a fire that killed her family and can remember nothing. BUT she is having terrible and vivid dreams. Molly's friend Gus has just studied with Freud in Vienna. Can she unlock these dream symbols? And can the two cases possibly be linked?

I always like to bring in true New York history and this event actually happened:

It was an overcast morning, rather uncomfortably warm with a heaviness to the air, promising rain or even thunder later. Ninth Avenue was busy with early morning activity—people hurrying on their way to work, shopkeepers winding out awnings,  putting out trays of vegetables, bric-a-brac, flowers, books.  Smart carriages and hansom cabs raced past. Delivery drays lumbered along and there was even an occasional automobile, dodging in and out of slower traffic, impatiently tooting its horn, which delighted Liam. I should have been enjoying the scene but I couldn’t shake off a feeling of uneasiness. I found I was glancing over my shoulder, as if someone was watching me—which of course was absurd, since nobody knew I was in this part of the city.

When we reached the Fifty-Ninth street station I realized my folly at coming out so early. The platform was jam-packed with business people, traveling down to the commercial center of the city at the southern tip of Manhattan. I was half-minded to go back down the stairs and hail one of those cabs. But that would have been an extravagance we couldn’t afford, especially with the added expense of furnishing our house. I still hadn’t had time to ask Daniel where the money was coming from to buy these bed linens and kitchen supplies.  That was one of the problems with being a policeman’s wife—there was never time just to sit and talk. And too much time to worry, alone.

A train came rumbling down the track toward us, the bright disk on the front of the locomotive revealing it to be a Sixth Avenue local.  Just what I wanted. But apparently so did everyone else. The crowd surged forward and I saw to my dismay that the carriages were already full.  A portly man with mutton-chop whiskers, wearing a derby hat saw me carrying a baby and stepped aside for me to get on board, but just at that moment a man came hurtling past, nearly knocking me over as he ran down the platform. My protector in the derby hat leaped to my aid, muttering curses at the unchivalrous lout and as he did so the doors slammed, the whistle blew and the train pulled out.

“No matter,” my portly protector said. “See, another train is right behind it. They come thick and fast at this time of the day, and I’ll wager this one is less crowded too.”

As it rattled into the station and pulled up with a squeaking of breaks I saw that it wasn’t a Sixth Avenue Train this time. It was a Ninth Avenue. I hesitated as doors opened and others climbed aboard. I could take this train to Christopher Street but it would mean a longer walk at the other end. Then it struck me that It would also mean that I walked past Sid and Gus’s favorite French bakery. I could stop off there and bring them croissants for their breakfast.  Thus encouraged with the idea of buying my friends a little treat, I was about to climb aboard the second car when I heard the sound of a hacking cough. No thank you, I thought. I was forever mindful that summer diseases can linger into September in New York. Every year had its share of cholera and typhoid, and consumption was ever-present. I wasn’t going to expose Liam to that risk.  I backed away and pushed through the crowd to the third car instead. Passengers were packed like sardines behind the first two doors. I wrenched open the third door and heaved Liam and myself up the step. This part of the car was just as crowded. Two round middle-aged women, immigrants from somewhere dressed in black dresses and black headscarves were sitting on the seats nearest the door, leaning across to each other deep in conversation and seemed oblivious to me, continuing to talk around me as if I wasn’t there.  A man across the aisle tried to offer me his seat, but I couldn’t get past a large lady with a round shopping basket on her arm, so I was forced to stand with Liam in my arms.

This was not wise, I told myself. No wonder I couldn’t shake off the feeling of unease that had gripped me since I left the building that morning.  I tried to hang onto to the leather strap above my head but Liam was now too heavy to hold with one arm, and besides he was wriggling and complaining at being squashed like this. 

I’ll get out at the next station and take the Broadway trolley instead, I decided. It takes longer but at least there is fresh air and Liam can see out as we ride.  I was swung from side to side as the train picked up speed.  Then I was pressed to the door of the carriage as the train started to round a curve. I remember thinking that we were traveling much too fast for such a curve. And surely there was no steep curve on the Ninth Avenue El? It was the Sixth Avenue Train that went around that sharp bend. But even as these thoughts were flashing through my mind suddenly there was a tremendous jolt.  I was flung violently against the carriage door. The large woman and her basket slammed into me. Liam cried out. People were screaming. The screams were deadened by the sound of screeching metal, of splintering wood. The life was being squeezed out of me as more people piled into me. I tried to yell, “Liam!” as he was wrenched from my arms.

And then we were falling. Plunging down toward the street below.

I have posted my signing schedule on my website and hope to see some of you in the next weeks. Also Tasha Alexander and I are having a Facebook chat today on my Facebook page if there are questions you'd like to ask. www.facebook.com/rhysbowenauthor