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| The Throwbacks by Stephanie Queen |
She's here today to talk about her writing process and her latest book...which recently received 4 and 1/2 stars from RT Bookreviews:
"Resplendent in rich detail, laugh-out-loud moments, a fast-paced plot and spellbinding characters, THE THROWBACKS is a stellar not-to-be-missed standout!" Way to go, Stephanie!
Q&A for Stephanie Queen:
How long have you been writing?
At least ten minutes. Soon I’ll need to jump up from my chair and pace a while. To think. And to wear off some of the chocolate I’ve been eating…while writing. What? I’m a multi-tasker.
Oh, wait… you didn’t mean how long have I been writing today? You were talking about how long since I was born? I don’t have an answer for that. My memory doesn’t go back as far as my writing apparently.
What made you start writing? Did anyone inspire or encourage you to write?
The nuns made me start writing. You could call it inspiration… Sure. Let’s go with that.
Plotter? Pantser? Or something in between?
(I refuse to answer this question on the grounds that it sounds too obscene when I try. Especially the in between option.)
Please tell us about your current release.
I love my latest release, The Throwbacks. I’d call it the book of my heart, but it’s more like the book of my funny-bone. No, I can’t really say that either. (You’d think I’d be able to say something about the book, wouldn’t you?)
How about if I let the story speak for itself – here’s an excerpt:
Chapter 1
Grace tip-toed along the brick path, trying not to get her party heels stuck in the cracks. She heard the cab pull away from the curb and looked back. Sophia bounced behind her, wearing sensible party boots.
“Do you realize you gave that taxi driver twenty dollars for a two dollar fare?” her friend said.
“Oh—just like in the song.” She smiled and climbed the steps leading to Mabel’s back door, then stopped. Sophia stopped behind her.
“What?”
“You know. The Harry Chapin song where…”
“Quit stalling, Grace. This is not a surprise birthday party. Open the door.”
“Are we sure about that? Today is my birthday.” Or at least she’d always celebrated her birthday on October fifteenth as a close approximation. No one had ever come up with a more likely date.
“No kidding? Not your thirtieth birthday is it?” Sophia stood on the step below her, making her even shorter than she already was. She looked like an updated version of Lucille Ball with an attitude and a bob. That thought made her smile.
“Wait until you turn thirty and see. You’ll have palpitations too.” Grace turned and pushed through the door into the back hall of Mabel’s Beacon Hill townhouse, willing away that intruder sensation she always got. Mabel was as good as family. She almost said it out loud. Mabel was like the eccentric old aunt she used to dream up for herself back when she used to dream about those things.
As they stepped into the old woman’s kitchen, the powerful aroma of food and familiarity warmed her. Even the clatter of the no-doubt expensive caterers didn’t spoil the homey effect.
“Mabel went all out for this bash. Any idea why she would be hosting this Scotland Yard party?” Sophia followed her through the kitchen
“I don’t know. It’s a big event to kick off their exchange program with the Boston Police Department. And a command performance. I only wish I had a date.” Grace looked down at her friend. “No offense.”
She started to give herself the usual pep talk for going into a party dateless, the one about her soul mate being around the next corner, when her purse rang. Somewhere deep inside her way-big bag her ringing phone hid. Weaving around the catering staff, she crossed the black-and-white tiled kitchen to the swinging doors as she dug inside the bag to find the phone.
“Buck up,” Sophia said. “After all, thirty is the new twenty, right? It‘s not like you’re a spinster.”
The ringing grew louder as Grace pulled the phone out. She stabbed the call button. The party waited on the other side of the doors in front of them. She pushed through, into the room that Mabel called the “grand salon,” and spoke into the phone, using what she hoped was a discreet voice. “Hello.”
“Grace! I’m so glad I got you!” Her friend Theresa Torini’s voice boomed from the other end of the line so that anyone could hear everything.
“There’s been a murder!”
“What? You didn’t say murder?” Grace said. Then she clapped a hand over her mouth and darted her eyes around to see if anyone was paying attention. A few curious glances were thrown her way. Still holding the phone to her ear, not one more word volunteered its way to her mouth.
“Yes! A murder! And you have to help!” Theresa shrieked loud enough for Sophia to hear.
Sophia’s mouth opened to speak, but Grace shook her head furiously. Sophia clamped her mouth shut and clamped a hand on Grace’s arm, her eyes perplexed.
Grace frowned. Murder? Her help? What the heck was she talking about? But even if Theresa was crazy or confused, her hysteria sounded real.
“Take a deep breath, honey—aren’t you at your wedding rehearsal dinner?” Grace asked.
“Yes!”
Grace moved the phone a distance from her head to lessen the effect of her friend’s shocking volume. She moved away from people as best she could with the crowd already in full swing, pulling Sophia, who was still clamped to her arm, with her.
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you—Rick’s brother—oh poor Rick—his brother who was supposed to be our best man—has been shot! Murdered! Right here!”
“Oh no! I can’t believe it!” Grace stopped, truly taken aback. She watched Sophia’s face turn from confused to incredulous. Grace looked around. A few people stared, and some raised eyebrows. She put on a reassuring smile.
Sophia stuck to her arm, listening in. “Is she serious?”
Grace wasn’t sure. She shook her head.
“When did this all happen?” Grace asked.
“Just now—that’s why I’m calling you.”
“What do you want me to do? I’ll do whatever you need. Are the police there?” Grace asked. It occurred to her that this was a bad time for a murder across town. All the police were at this party.
“No. We have to keep it a secret…”
“Honey—I hate to tell you this—but you’re making no sense whatsoever and normally I’m right on the same page with you but…”
“We can’t call the police! We don’t want the reporters to know. The Mayor—Dad—insists we keep it hush-hush. No media. So I’m calling you…”
“I’m flattered but…” Grace had no idea what to say. Her friend was hysterical. Worse, the Mayor was insane.
“So you can tell the police, but discreetly,” Theresa said and it finally made sense.
“Oh—I get it. Because I’m here at the police party.”
“Yes! But you have to find Dan O’Keefe—the Chief—and tell him it’s top secret.”
“I don’t know who he is, honey. Why don’t you call him directly?”
“Don’t you think they’ve been trying that? They can’t get through on his personal cell phone and they don’t want to call his official line because then everyone will know.”
“Okay, I’ll try to find him—what does he look like?” Grace leaned down toward Sophia so she could be in on the conversation. She despaired at the generic description Theresa gave them to work with, but she didn’t complain. “Sweetheart, don’t worry—Sophia and I will ask around. We’ll find the Chief. And we promise to keep the murder under our hats. I’ll have him call you as soon as we find him.” She shoved the phone back in her bag.
“Gees, and I thought Mabel’s ‘Welcome Scotland Yard Party’ with the Boston police brass and stuffy British big-shots was going to be as exciting as a Latin mass,” Sophia said.
“This is serious—keep a look out for a tall, middle-aged man,” she said to her friend. But the prospect was daunting. The sounds of crystal and silver clinking like children pounding on xylophones sharpened as Grace drew them further into the crowd, looking around. The high-ceilinged room was bright with chandelier light and warm with the haze of cigars and way too many people.
“You look decorative.” Sophia eyed her. “We have a better chance of the police Chief finding you first with those colors you’re wearing. Why don’t you stand on one of these pedestals and give a shout out?”
Grace squinted at her diminutive friend. She had no room to talk. Sophia wore her typical offbeat outfit. Tonight she looked as if she’d stepped out of a fifties sitcom with a cinch-waisted dress and pearls. Grace surveyed the room, skimming over the guests to linger on the high style of the art deco furnishings that made this her favorite townhouse in all of Boston’s tony Beacon Hill. She sighed.
“I don’t know where to start. All these men look the same to me.”
Then her gaze caught on a tall man in a dark suit out in the entry hall. He’d just walked in on a breeze with dried maple leaves floating to the floor around him. He strode into the room and straight into the clutches of several blue-haired ladies and shiny-headed men. They immediately embraced him with cheek-kissing and backslapping affection. Grace watched as the mystery man withstood the onslaught with aplomb.
“At least you can see them—I should have asked Theresa for a description of his shoes,” Sophia said.
“No whining. I wonder if that man could be the Chief?”
“What man?” Sophia asked, standing on tiptoes.
“The distinguished-looking man. Over there.” Grace pointed as subtly as possible with her brilliant orange fingernails.
“Nice nails,” Sophia said. “Could be the Chief. Or he could be the big-shot from Scotland Yard.”
“What?” Grace said. She only half listened to Sophia. The mystery man had moved, but it was easy to keep track of him by the sound of laughter. He was like a fun island in the middle of an ocean of blue bloods. “We need to start somewhere. Let’s start by asking him.” She took her friend’s arm and steered her in his direction.
Grace got them within two feet of the man and then stopped. She watched the man more carefully as she considered him. “I never met anyone in the crime-fighting field before…” she whispered, trying not to show her simmering excitement.
Sophia rolled her eyes. “Grace, he’s not Batman.”
“But he could be heroic.” She thought the words out loud. She shoved aside the possibility that she might be disappointed, and with a tingle of anticipation, she walked right up to Mr. Distinguished. She figured a man like him, a possible crime-fighting hero, would appreciate a bold approach.
“Hello. I’m Grace Rogers. And I’m hoping you’re Boston’s Chief of Police.” She gave the man her best bold smile.
David turned, and his eyes met a classic Marilyn look-alike with bouncing blond curls, twinkling brown eyes and a single deep dimple. He automatically looked over her colorfully clad va-voom body--out of professional habit. He was proud that he kept his mouth closed and his eyes from popping.
In the year since he’d moved back to the States, he hadn’t felt more adrift and out of sorts than he did at this very moment. What could he possibly say to this ridiculously young and beautiful bombshell? Where’s your father?
“Hello, young lady. Why do you hope that I am the police chief of this city?” He couldn’t wait for this answer as he eyed her dimple and looked into her earnest eyes.
“I need to report a murder.”
Hmmm.
“You look very much alive to me.” Real smooth. Not unlike the one-too-many Scotches he’d been drinking.
But luckily for him she laughed, a full-bodied throaty sound. No half-way little tinkling for this Grace woman. Either she had a refreshing sense of humor or she was putting him on. He wasn’t sure. Not a good sign. Because if there was one thing he was always sure of, it was people.
“That was the last thing I expected you to say. I knew a bold approach would work,” she said. The wattage of her smile increased to a blinding level.
He had to work at regaining his aplomb. After all, he had his reputation to keep up—the professional one. And he’d promised himself and his friend, who was saving his life right now by not letting him sink into the pit of self-pity, that he would slow down with the revolving-door women. He looked her over again—one more time for old time’s sake. He had picked a very inconvenient time to slow down with women. She was exquisite, if flashy, and she beamed with what, he now realized, was a sinfully genuine smile from a shockingly expressive face.
“I very much doubt you could possibly come up with any approach that would be less than superlatively successful, Miss Rogers. You are utterly charming.” David smiled because he actually meant it.
“My, my. You’re not bad in the charm department yourself. I can’t help noticing you have a British accent…are you from England?” She flashed her white teeth. He could feel the waves of admiration emanating from her.
He stood there soaking her in when he realized she’d asked if he was from England. He looked more closely then to make sure she wasn’t putting him on. But no.
“Yes. I’m David Young, semi-retired…”
“You’re not the chief? Oh, no.” She frowned and began looking around, as did her friend. He assumed the small red-bobbed woman was her friend since she was clamped to Grace’s arm.
“You need to find the Chief and fast. He needs to call the Mayor right away. It’s been ten minutes since Theresa called and—” the pixie-like woman said.
“I know, I know.” Grace spun in a slow circle, looking about.
He held himself from laughing. Was it possible?
“Are you serious? Has there been a murder?”
“Of course, that’s what I just told you. I would never make a false police report, especially not to the Chief of…”
“I’m not the Chief, but I …”
“I know. I was hoping I’d guessed right—sorry to have disturbed you. We really need to find Chief O’Keefe …” She looked at him again with those hypnotic brown eyes. The redheaded woman at her side looked at him skeptically.
“Do you know who the Chief is, by any chance?” the pixie-like woman asked.
Grace gave him nothing short of a wistful look. He couldn’t possibly be planning to reform his run as a rake tonight. She was too perfect.
“Actually, yes, I do. I’m here on loan with—” he started to say before he lost his head.
“Perfect! Please, take us to him.” Grace beamed at him and slipped her arm into his. “What field are you in?”
He took a double take at that and looked around at the gigantic banner hanging over the second-story railing behind her, proclaiming “The Scotland Yard–Boston Police Department Exchange Program Inauguration.” He looked back down at her and squinted a closer look. No, she was not putting him on. But…oh well, what the heck.
“Law enforcement.”
“How exciting—that must be how you know the chief.”
He directed his new entourage in the direction of where he’d last seen his childhood friend, known to all as the Chief, but to him he’d always be Dick Tracy. They headed toward the buffet table through the thick crowd.
“Who are you? How long have you been over this side of the pond?” she asked with her wide eyes aimed at him, hinting of interest.
He laughed. It was too difficult to hold it in and play it cool in her presence. And absolutely no point to it in any event. She was completely without guile. Possibly without a clue, but he didn’t think so.
“I’ve been here long enough to get to know these wonderful people from the Boston Police Department, but not long enough to furnish my home.” It was his stock answer to that question for the evening, but he couldn’t wait to hear what her response would be.
“Oh no! But you have to furnish your home or it’s not a home!” She stopped short and looked distressed. Not exactly the response he was anticipating. She dug through her bright purple purse, and he was newly intrigued. She pulled out a card with a flourish.
“You should call a decorator to help you. If ever there was someone in need of decorating help, I can sense it’s you.” She was confident and alarmingly correct in her assessment. She snapped her purse shut.
“I think you could be right about that, Miss Rogers.” He slipped the card in his breast pocket after a quick glance. It was a decorating firm business card. A small amount of disappointment slipped by him.
She smiled and the dimple showed, again only on one side. His heart and his resolve melted another ten degrees in that moment. He smiled at the pixie-woman next to her.
“And you must be Tinkerbell.” He deadpanned it.
Grace treated him to another one of her throaty laughs, making it impossible for him to mind the scowl of her apparent half-pint friend. Which reminded him, he had no idea what happened to his friend and savior, Dick Tracy. They’d reached the buffet and he was nowhere in sight.
Grace heard the phone in her bag ring again—loudly. She reached in quickly and fished it out, smiled at David, fumbled and tried to open it.
“Why don’t you just ignore it?” Sophia asked, “It’s probably Theresa again, all hysterical about what’s taking so long.”
“It could be the sitter,” she whispered, then clicked the phone on and pressed it to her ear.
“What’s going on? Have you told the Chief yet?” Theresa said from the other end.
“We’re still looking for him. But we did find a charming British man who knows…”
“Hurry! And don’t tell anyone else no matter how charming they are! Dad is bursting an artery with worry about the press. Rick is sick with…”
“I get the picture—I’m on it. Got to go.” Grace clicked the phone off and shoved it back in her bag.
“Quite a conversation,” David said.
“That’s Theresa for you.” Grace looked around.
“The Mayor’s daughter. I take it the Mayor won’t be attending this party after all,” David said, with his reassuring calm. “Are you going to tell me about Theresa’s secret murder?”
“You aren’t supposed to know about that. It’s Theresa’s fiancé’s brother who was murdered. The Chief has to call the Mayor. We need to find him as soon as we can in this hopeless crowd of people,” She knew she was rambling and not making a good impression, but she felt desperate.
“He’s right over there.” David gave a slight smile and pointed to the large man looking in their direction. “Let’s introduce you.”
He was so calm it was catchy. “Yes, please,” she said. He put his hand at the small of her back. His hand on her and his calm manner soothed her as he escorted her toward the Chief. She realized that her breathing and heartbeat had normalized and it was all because of him. Then as the warmth of his touch spread through her, she felt a frisson of excitement. “Are you a good friend of his?” she asked in the most normal voice she could muster with that touch of his palm on her back beginning to take up more space in her mind.
“We go way back,” he said. Without interrupting anyone, and smiling at the small group surrounding the Chief, he caught his friend’s attention.
“What’s up, David?”
He motioned Dan aside. “Excuse us, please.” He smiled and the group melted away with deference. “Evidently there’s been a murder and you need to call the Mayor. This is Grace Rogers.”
“What the hell—I mean heck—are you talking about?” Dan asked with a predictably cloudy look. David kept his grin to himself.
“I’m afraid I don’t know much more—Grace, this is Dan O’Keefe, Boston Police Chief. Can you explain the phone call to him?”
“Hi, Chief.” She flashed her dimple. “Rick Racer’s brother was murdered at Rick and Theresa’s rehearsal dinner.”
“Theresa Torini? The Mayor’s daughter? Her wedding rehearsal dinner?” the Chief said in disbelief with his brows raised as he looked at Grace, who vigorously nodded her head. The Chief looked to David for more clues, then he looked back to Grace. “And you are?”
“I’m Grace…”
David decided it was time to do his official duty, and cut her off. “A friend of Theresa Torini’s. Apparently the Mayor didn’t want to make an official call. He wants to keep it out of the media. Instead, Ms. Torini called and asked Ms. Rogers if she would find you here to tell you to call the Mayor—on his private cell phone.” David summed it all up as best he could.
With a frown on his face, Dan plucked the phone from its holster at his waist. “What are you smiling at?” he said to David, who realized he was enjoying himself.
He still had his hand at Grace’s back and he decided he was enjoying that too.
“Why don’t we get some food while the Chief gets to the bottom of this,” David said while he moved her in the direction of the table.
“Don’t go too far.” The Chief punched some numbers into his phone and headed to the front entry hall.
David led Grace and Sophia-the-Pixie to the buffet table. Pixie looked meaningfully at her watch and nodded to Grace. “I hope Theresa’s hysteria is under control because we have to leave soon,” she said.
“It wasn’t pure hysteria. There really was a murder, but we accomplished our mission and gave the case to the Chief.” Grace peeked at the grandfather clock. “One more hour until glass slipper time,” she said with unreasonable disappointment.
“Oh? You have a curfew?” David gave her a mock alarmed look.
“Yes—her mom and pop will be here any minute with their shotguns,” Sophia said to him without a smile and then looked at Grace.
David raised his brow, but he didn’t rise to the bait. He turned to Grace.
“I only have my sitter until midnight,” Grace told him.
At this, Sophia let out a loud whoop of a laugh and David opened his mouth but said nothing. Instead, with a frown, he took her hand in his and examined it.
“What is it, David?” she asked. “What?”
“Grace—he thinks you have a kid, and possibly a husband, and from the looks of it he’s stupefied.”
“You don’t have a child?” David heard the hopefulness in his own voice and reigned himself in mentally.
“No—the sitter is for my puppy.”
“Oh, I see. Forgive my confusion. You can have your hand back now,” he said.
“What did you want with my hand anyway?” She was looking at him and he didn’t know what to say. He looked at Pixie and thought the nickname he gave her suited her petite form, fiery red hair, and flitting mischievous nature perfectly.
“He was checking for a wedding band,” Pixie said.
He coughed to cover his laugh. “Is it common for one to hire a dog-sitter for the evening?” he asked.
“I only hire the dog-sitter when I go out.”
Sophia shook her head and patted David on the back. He held in his laugh this time.
“I don’t know about you, Sherlock, but I need another drink.” Pixie shook her head and walked away. “Let me know if there’s another murder,” she called over her shoulder, causing a few heads to turn. He inwardly cringed and hoped the need for secrecy about the murder had been exaggerated. He’d hear all about it soon enough, he was sure. In the meantime, he felt determined to enjoy Grace’s company before she rushed home to her puppy.
“Gracie, I think you and I should eat something from this enticing buffet. We’ll need our strength to communicate without our translator,” David said.
She laughed. “You read my mind.”
What’s next for you?
Really? Are you serious?
More books.
3 comments:
Welcome, Stephanie! We are happy to have you here. Congrats on the great review and may all those future books be just as well received!
Hi, Stephanie! Thank you for visiting us. I've downloaded your books and am excited to read them!
Always love a chance to laugh at myself--I mean answer interesting interview questions...
A pleasure to be with you guys!
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