Lucy's Gathering Plot Scraps Like a Magpie @LucyBurdette #amwriting

LUCY BURDETTE: Whoo-hoo, big news here! The Key Lime Crime has won the bronze medal for Popular Fiction in the 2020 Florida Book Awards. I'm almost too excited to write...however, deadlines loom...

So I have been working hard on generating plot ideas and pages for Key West mystery number 12. Yes, that’s more big news, two more installments in the Key West food critic series are on the way!

Calm down Lucy and tell them about the book...

I found the idea for the first of these two books around New Year’s when my husband and I visited Boca Chica beach on Geiger key with my sister and her husband. You may have seen the photos on Facebook--it's an isolated strip of beach that runs alongside the Navy base's runway. Lottie had a blast and came back completely snarled with bits of dried sponge and seaweed. And I came back with the beginning of a book, the discovery of a body on the beach, near this structure built of rocks and driftwood and decorated with all kinds of found objects.

My next shiny magpie bit was provided by my writers group friend Ang Pompano. He sent me a message asking if I had seen this cookbook that had been published by the Key West Woman’s Club in the 1940s. I had not, and it was not in print, but I managed to score one on eBay. I'm having a lot of fun considering what kinds of clues Hayley Snow might find in such a historic cookbook. And now I have a tour set up so I can see the actual Woman's Club. As president of the Friends of the Library, I was especially interested to learn that the women of this club actually founded and financed the Key West Library for a number of years.

With that introduction, I will share a bit of the opening chapter:

I grinned and looked out across the water, watching sailboats and shrimpers bob slowly in the distance, and listening to small black birds chittering on a rock that protruded from the surf. Already I felt lighter than when we’d come. Chester and Barkley emerged from wading in the water and lay beside Eric in the sand, pink tongues lolling. They had bits of dried sponge tangled in their fur that would be hell to comb out. I suddenly realized that Nathan’s Ziggy was not with them.

“Where’s Ziggy?” I asked.

Off in the distance I could hear a few sharp yips. Eric started to get up.

“You stay here and relax,” I said. “I better go see what that little rascal’s gotten into.” 

I trotted along the beach weaving in and out of the skeletal remains of mango trees, and into the brush along the chain link fence, calling for Ziggy. He was pretty good at coming, but right now he sounded more excited than usual. I paused to listen. The yips had grown louder so I kept walking in their direction.

I jogged until I reached a structure built with piles of flat white stones and pieces of driftwood, bleached gray and pale in the sun. According to Eric, rumor had it that a homeless man had built this place and lived here until he was finally evicted by the authorities. It was decorated with weathered buoys, beer and wine bottles woven into sections of fishing net, old shoes, and sheets of metal that hung from the overhead branches and played a dissonant drumbeat when the wind picked up. It almost looked as though the driftwood structure had been divided into rooms, one kitchen-like with a fire pit and a large metal bowl. 

Finally, I saw the dog digging frantically in the sand.

I called him again and huffed with exasperation when he didn’t respond. Nathan and I were going to have to have a chat about obedience training. Ziggy did exactly what Nathan told him to do, and they’d never taken a class. But I was like the stepparent whose kid announced, “you’re not my mother,” when asked to do something that didn’t suit him. I could picture Ziggy with his paws on hips and lower lip jutted out, if that was possible with a small dog. I approached him, leash in hand, prepared to scoop him up and scold him. 

But as I got closer, I could see that inside the shallow hole he’d dug, he’d uncovered a piece of denim. And then oh good gravy, what looked like the fingers on a man’s hand. He took hold of the loose denim, and shook it hard, growling. 

“Good boy Ziggeroo,” I said, squatting down to his level, hoping to lure him over before he destroyed what surely looked like a crime scene.

Reds, I wonder if it's only crime fiction writers in search of a plot who see possibilities for murder and murderous characters everywhere? How about you?

And one more bit of news, all through April, the ebook versions of DEATH ON THE MENU, A DEADLY FEAST, and THE KEY LIME CRIME are on sale--get em while they're hot!