Melissa Senate

I love a good mystery and can't wait to get to Dr. Roberta Isleib's new novel, ASKING FOR MURDER. Right now I'm finally reading Unaccustomed Earth by Jhumpa Lahiri, whose first collection (Interperter of Maladies) I read at least three times. I admit to also taking Linda Goodman's Sun Signs (I think first published in the 60s) from the town recycling center's book room in order to read up on Your Cancer Child. It always amazes me how true this stuff seems to be. I read up on Your Leo Child (which I was once) to see if Max could fit any profile, but there was nothing of the Leo child in him. Interesting. Anyway, back to the juicy mystery on the bedside table….

Psychologist/advice columnist/sleuth Dr. Rebecca Butterman plunges into her third mystery in ASKING FOR MURDER by Dr. Roberta Isleib (Berkley Prime Crime, September 2008.) When Rebecca’s close friend and fellow therapist Annabelle Hart is found beaten and left for dead, Rebecca is determined to help search for answers. But this time, no one wants her help. Not Detective Meigs, who thinks the crime was either a botched robbery or the result of a relationship gone sour. And not Annabelle’s sister, who makes it clear that Rebecca isn’t welcome in family affairs. The only place where her opinion matters is the therapist’s couch. Rebecca's agreed to see Annabelle’s patients while her friend is hospitalized, but it won’t be easy. Annabelle’s area of expertise is sandplay therapy, which Rebecca knows little about. While she studies the images in the patients’ sand trays and puzzles through Annabelle’s family secrets, another victim is murdered. With a killer on the loose, she can only hope the clues in the sand are buried within easy reach.

Isleib's advice column series debuted in 2007 with DEADLY ADVICE and PREACHING TO THE CORPSE. A clinical psychologist, Isleib says the work of the detective in a mystery has quite a bit in common with long-term psychotherapy: Start with a problem, follow the threads looking for clues, and gradually fill in the big picture.

Isleib is the president of National Sisters in Crime and the past president of the New England chapter. Her books and stories have been short-listed for Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity awards. Check out her website for fun extras and more information:

http://www.robertaisleib.com

http://www.robertaisleib.com/blog

PRAISE!
“Asking for Murder is a charming and sometimes gritty mystery with an appealing protagonist who sleuths, cooks and psychoanalyzes.” Marilyn Dahl, Shelf-Awareness

“Top-notch writing, meticulous plotting – and a heroine who is perfectly imperfect…” Diana Vickery, the Cozy Library

“Dr. Rebecca Butterman, the quirky, flawed, eccentric, funny psychologist and advice columnist in PREACHING TO THE CORPSE, is my kind of protagonist.” Rebecca Rule, Nashua Telegraph

"Isleib's series debut shines with wit and suspense, thanks in part to an affable and intelligent heroine. Succinct plotting and expert pacing also help this well-crafted cozy shine." –Romantic Times Magazine

Enjoy!

A few days ago, I drove past a procession of huge dump trucks. There must have been ten of them in a row. The sight of those trucks immediately brought me back to 9/11, and I had to pull over in tears and take deep breaths. 

On the morning of September 11, 2001, I was in my Manhattan apartment, watching the Today show. In real time, I saw the second plane aimed for the tower, the news anchors having no idea what to say, what to report. I watched in horror as it hit. A few minutes later, my friend Adam came over (he lived across the street). We walked around our neighborhood in a daze, then decided to see if we could give blood at the nearest hospital.  That night, we were still outside, unsure what to do with ourselves, how to make sense of what had happened, how to even discuss it. In a life-is-way-too-short moment, Adam and I kissed for the first time that night. Two months later, our son was conceived. Two years later, we married in our beloved city, in Central Park, at the Bethesda Fountain, my favorite spot in the park, with our son in his tiny tuxedo. 

The marriage didn't last. But when I saw that procession of dump trucks the other day, way up here in Maine where I now live, I called Adam and told him about it, how it reminded me of us watching those huge trucks thundering down Second Avenue, one after another, the streets otherwise empty of traffic, the two of us just standing there and staring, unable to think, process, and so we just kissed. He was my friend then, and he's my friend now.  

On my favorite moms' message board, there's a discussion about when and how to tell your young child about 9/11. Some posted that 6 and under is too young; some thought four was old enough to be told about it in bad guy/good guy terms. Max is 6, and I think he's too young to be told about 9/11, in any terms. The day will come when he does learn about it. I'm comforted by the thought that Max will also learn that amid all that terror and tragic loss, his parents held hands for the first time.

My bedside reading pile is getting way too high. What I need to do is return (unread) all the "Your First Grader" books to the library (I live to research everything that I'm involved in, unfortunately). Next up then (after I finish Nice To Come Home To, which is adorable (that word really seems to fit), I'm going to start THE PROFESSOR'S WIVES CLUB by the very nice, lovely (she has that gorgeous-straight-blond-shiny hair I've always coveted) and talented author Joanne Rendell. I love books about female friendship, especially women who find friendship, true friendship, in unexpected and unlikely alliances. 

In her new novel THE PROFESSORS’ WIVES’ CLUB (NAL/Penguin; 2nd September 2008), NYU faculty wife Joanne Rendell tells of four professors’ wives who risk everything to save a beloved faculty garden. With its iron gate and high fence laced with honeysuckle, Manhattan University’s garden offers faculty wives Mary, Sofia, Ashleigh, and Hannah a much needed refuge. Each of them carries a scandalous secret that could upset their lives, destroy their families, and rock the prestigious university to its very core.
When a ruthless Dean tries to demolish the garden, the four women are thrown together in a fight which enrages and unites them. The wives are an indomitable force. While doing battle with the ambitious dean, they expose the dark underbelly of academia – and find the courage to stand up for their own dreams, passions, and lives.

Praise for THE PROFESSORS’ WIVES’ CLUB
"As an NYU alum, I enjoyed the behind-the-scenes escapades at the fictional Manhattan U. in THE PROFESSORS’ WIVES’ CLUB. Joanne Rendell has created a quick, fun read about a wonderful group of friends." –Kate Jacobs, NYT’s bestselling author of THE FRIDAY NIGHT KNITTING CLUB

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Joanne Rendell was born and raised in the UK. After completing her PhD in English Literature, she moved to the States to be with her husband, a professor at NYU. She now lives in a student dorm in New York City with her family. The Professors’ Wives’ Club is her first novel. Joanne’s second novel will be released by NAL/Penguin next summer (’09).

Enjoy!

Two years ago, a Redbook magazine editor read the essay I wrote for the anthology It's A Wonderful Lie: The Truth About Life In Your Twenties, and asked me to pitch a short essay about a life-changing day. I've never written a magazine article before, but I wrote my little pitch about the day that I resigned myself to living in Maine (let's just say it had something to do with divorce and child custody). The editor liked it, especially the "here I am, and here is home" aspect, and she contracted me to write the essay, all of 500 words. Now, as the author of several 100,000 words-ish novels and two 3,000 word essays, I thought: no prob. But, there was a prob, and my poor little essay never did see the light of day. The problem was that at the time, two years ago, I was here, and here was home, but "here" didn't feel like home and I hated every minute of it.  A little history:

Four years ago, in August, I moved from the Upper East Side of Manhattan (where I'd lived since 1990) to a small town in Maine (with one traffic light). Everyone shook their heads and said: you, in Maine? No way. Something about my lack of appreciation for nature, large bodies of water, anything to do with hiking or fresh air . . .  I was a city girl through and through. The thing about Maine is that you can't help but appreciate just about everything about the state, except maybe the way the snow piles up on the curbs all winter long. Summer in Maine almost makes up for those snow piles. Still, I woke up and made faces at the gorgeous oak tree out my window.

But this past year, something strange happened to me. A couple times a week, I head down to Borders, the only large chain bookstore around. (There are several great independents very close by, including one a block away from my house, but I like to browse Borders to check out the new releases of women's fiction, ALL of which my indies don't necessarily stock, and I'm obsessive about seeing everything that comes out every month.  Anyway, this Borders is something of a schlep, a 20 minute drive down I-295, and when you get off the highway into South Portland, it's like you're all of a sudden in the crazy shopping mecca of Paramus, New Jersey, where I spent my teen years (in the malls). Anyway again: on the way back, when I'm driving north along lovely 295, the Presumpscot River suddenly appears once you pass the city of Portland, and the sight of it, this absolutely beautiful body of water, gives me that same feeling of peace and "ah, I'm home" that the New York City skyline or the exit for 71st Street used to give me off the FDR Drive.

It's taken four years, but Maine now FEELS like home, and not just in a here I am kinda way. I like it here. A lot.  I think it's been an entire year since I've been to New York City, and though I have this burning urge to go, I don't think the city will feel the same to me, give me that same peace and contentment and "this is where I belong." When I was a teenager, my dream was to move to Manhattan, and through my twenties and thirties, living in Manhattan felt like a dream come true. Now, my dream is to own a very cute house in my sweet little town, on the water.  Interesting.  

Anyway again, today was my dear boy's first day of first grade, and I can think of few better places to raise this amazing kid than right here. One day I will go back to that essay. I didn't realize that I wasn't ready to write it then, and I'm still not. Some things are actually not meant to be written, which I'm learning all the time. 

I usually don't blab on about myself this way, so back to books: I'm reading two novels right now. One in my bag and one is on my nightstand. In my bag is The Last Chinese Chef by Nicole Mones. The reason I picked up this gem was because the front cover said: By the author of Lost In Translation. So naturally, I thought it was that Lost In Translation, a la the movie. But it's not. Anyway, pure serendipity–I love The Last Chinese Chef, and now must go back and read the other Lost In Translation. The book on my nightstand is Sweet Love by Sarah Strohmeyer. If you're a writer or a reader and you don't read The Lipstick Chronicles blog every day, you are missing out. I think this group blog (six or seven writers, including Sarah Strohmeyer) is razor-sharp brilliant, but beware that it's not for the faint of heart; they say it, and it has a wide range. Harley Jane Kozak, the actress and a very talented mystery writer, is one of the regular contributors, and when I see her little photo atop the blog, I always think of Rick Moranis serenading her in Parenthood, one of my favorite movies: "Why do birds suddenly appear, everytime you are near…" This makes me smile.

Books I ordered today: Thin Is The New Happy by the always smart and funny Valerie Frankel, and The Smart One and The Pretty One by Claire LaZebnik. 

Must go make two snacks and one lunch for tomorrow's school day. Max will not eat cafeteria food, even when it's chicken nuggets or pizza or even today's interesting first day choice of french toast. If he could, he'd eat nothing but Nutella sandwiches and sour Skittles and black bean nachos. 

Melissa