Book Review: I Only Read Murders by Ian Ferguson & Will Ferguson (cozy mystery)

 I Only Read Murder is a cozy mystery set against the backdrop of the staging of a historical murder mystery--Death Is the Dickens, written by a local playwright. The setting plays a key role in cozy mysteries. This novel is set in Happy Rock, Oregon...

'Everyone moved slower out here, more leisurely, as though time were less pressing. It was a watercolor come to life. A doily of a town, with marigolds and flowering begnias spilling out of streetlamps baskets. Happy Rock hadn't been built; it had been crocheted into existence.'

(p. 22)

It's a cozy mystery that asks the question: What do you do when you're lost? Can you go home again?

photo by ldyck

I Only Read Murder

Ian Ferguson & Will Ferguson

Harper Collins

cozy mystery

2023

311 pp

Fifteen years ago, Minnesota-born Miranda Abbott left Oregon and her newlywedded husband to pursue fame and fortune. She found both as the star of the popular TV mystery Pastor Fran Investigates.

Fifteen years later, forty-something Miranda has lost her fame and she has lost her fortune.

A postcard from her estranged husband sends her travelling back--a sixteen hours and thirty-seven minutes bus ride--to Happy Rock, Oregon. Will she find love? Will she find murder? What will happen when Actor Miranda investigates?

What did other reviewers think?...

Anne Logan's Review

More recommended books by Will Ferguson

Beauty Tips from Moose Jaw

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The Shoe on the Roof

On this blog in October...

I'm very happy with the short stories that I've selected for this month. All three have been polished and they're ready to be read by you. That's not the problem. The problem is the book reviews. I'd planned

Book Review: Old Babes in the Woods by Margaret Atwood (story collection)

 I love reading Margaret Atwood's story collections, so I was thrilled to discover that she had released another one. I purchased the book at my earliest convenience. And... Let me tell you what I found within the covers of this book.

Old Babes in the Woods

Margaret Atwood

McClelland & Stewart

2023

15 stories

Old Babes in the Woods is a collection of fifteen stories that is sure to entertain, inspire and surprise the reader. The collection would be of special interest to those fifty-five years of age and older as the book addresses many of our concerns--how to age well, death and evolving family dynamics. By my count, six of the fifteen stories are about a married couple--Nell and Tig. They are a warmly human, sympathetic and relatable couple. Other stories range in genre from literary fiction to speculative fiction. 

As most know, Atwood is a skilled author and I filled many pages in my notebook with her clever turn of phrase and sound advice. Such as...

'Better to march along through the golden autumn woods, not very well prepared, poking icy ponds with your hiking pole, snacking on chocolate, sitting on frozen logs, peeling hard-boiled eggs with cold fingers as the early snow sifts down and the day darkens.'

"First Air" (p. 15) 

Reviews of other books by Margaret Atwood...

The Robber Bride

Cat's Eye

Bluebeard's Egg

Something a hairdresser once confided to me inspired the creation of this short story...

Going South (children's short story) by Leanne Dyck

 Older Rufous hummingbirds fly south in August. Younger hummingbirds migrate in September, but Pablo stays. Will he stay too long? 

photo by ldyck

The air is chilly under Pablo's wings as he leaves his nest and flies over to the hen house. His friend Mary-Lou is eating the seeds she finds scattered on the ground.

"Good morning, Pablo. My you're looking nice and healthy and round," she clucks, "But I didn't think I'd see you today. Shouldn't you be flying south for the winter?"

"Nah, I've got time," Pablo chirps.

Mary-Lou puffs out her wings. She looks like a big ball of feathers. "It's so cold. It could snow."

"What is this—how do you say—snow?"

"It's fluffy white ice crystals that fall from the sky."

"That sounds pretty."

"Maybe, but it's also dangerous. Pablo, you could freeze. I'm just going to finish my breakfast and run inside. It's nice and warm in my hen house. You could stay with us. There's plenty of room and lots of seeds. Why, just the other day I was telling the girls..." She clucks on and on.

Pablo waits for his friend to take a breath and then chirps, "Gracias, but no. I’m going to the hummingbird feeder.”

"If you're sure you won't join us. But please be careful. There are all kinds of dangers. And the cat. Beware of the cat. Her claws are long and her teeth are sharp." Mary-Lou takes one more beak full of seeds and then runs into the hen house.

Pablo flies to the feeder. There are no other birds—not even a feather. It's lonely but at least he doesn't have to wait for his turn. The nectar is as sweet and thick as he had hoped. He drinks some and drinks some more and more. He barely notices when the first flecks of snow start to fall, but when they get as big as he is he does look up. They are as pretty as he'd imagined. The snow paints the whole world white.

Snowflakes land on his head, his tail feathers, and his wings. It's getting harder and harder for him to flap. He has to stop drinking and find somewhere to perch.

Weighed down with snow, it takes all the strength he has to fly over to the house. He lands on the window ledge and tries to hold on but it's so cold. He can't feel his talons. He tumbles down onto the frozen ground. Several snowflakes fall on top of him. He's buried in a snowbank. The only thing that sticks out of the snow is his tail feathers.

Something grabs him. The something is warm and tight. He is lifted out of the snow. He feels like he's flying in the night sky.

He closes his first...second...third set of eyelids. And... He dreams that he's in sunny and warm Mexico.

When he opens his eyes, he's in a very strange, warm place. There are no trees and no sky. A woman is holding him. She dips his beak in sweet nectar. He drinks. She puts him in a cozy nest and he sleeps. When he wakes he feels stronger. He drinks more nectar and feels even stronger. He flaps his wings.

The woman picks him up and carries him out of the warmth back into the cold. He flaps his wings and flies away. He flies over a tall mountain and another and another. When he is too tired to flap his wings, he finds a place to perch. He rests for maybe a few hours or a few days. Then he continues his journey. He keeps flying until he feels the warm sun of Mexico.

Much thanks to my Mayne Island friends whose experience with a hummingbird inspired this story.

My heritage (article) by Leanne Dyck

My friend author Pam Withers asked me to represent Iceland in this celebration of culture.

On Saturday, September 2, I was pleased to accept my friend Author Pam Withers's invitation to read a story at Mayne Island's International Festival. The festival invited islanders to celebrate their cultural background through food shared, music played, jokes told, and stories read. This is what I read...

Hello, I'm Leanne Dyck and I'm Canadian. I'm Icelandic-Canadian thanks to my mom.

My maternal great-grandparents immigrated from northern Iceland to North America in the late 1800s. They didn't come alone. There are more Icelanders in Canada than anywhere else outside of Iceland. Almost immediately, these new Icelandic-Canadians established a newspaper and a library.

In 2007, thanks to my husband, I fulfilled a life-long dream to travel to Iceland. Iceland is an island in the North-Atlantic Ocean with a population roughly equal to the city of Victoria (on Vancouver Island), and every tenth person is an author. 

There I met distant relatives who went out of their way to make me feel at home. They provided five-star accommodation and served me delicious meals. I globbed ponnukokur (a thin, rolled pancake served with brown sugar and jam), skyr (similar to yogurt), hard fish (buttered dried fish eaten like crackers), and boiled dinner (boiled potatoes, boiled fish and butter).  I ate too much fermented shark (an Icelandic delicacy) and drank too much Brennivin. Enough about that... And they gave me this...

Ta-da!

photo by ldyck

This Icelandic flag was made in their flag factory. 

While in Iceland, I stayed in Hofsos--a picturesque seaside village. The Hofsos Emigration Centre commemorates Iceland's emigration to North America in the late 19th and early 20th century and promotes the connection between the people of Iceland and their descendants. (Hofsos Emigration Centre) I was able to trace my lineage back to 900. I descend from a long line of shepherds and sheep farmers. 

While in Hofsos, I was inspired to write a poem. I've continued to work on it off and on ever since. This is what I have so far...

I set sail for a distant land in pursuit of buried treasure.

My ship docked and I set to work.

The frozen ground broke my axe. The molten lava melted my shovel.

I roared at the mountains, "The land I walk is foreign land. The

 sounds I hear are foreign sounds. The air I breathe is foreign air."

I thundered at the sea, "This land of fire and ice is not a part of me."

Exhausted, I fell to my knees.

A distant, muted voice sang in a thick accent from deep within the

earth. "Keep digging, Elskan. We wait."

Elksan means beloved or dear one in Icelandic.

Icelanders seek connection with one another and to retain the Icelandic culture through the Iceland-based Snorri programs and through the ethnic festival Isledingadagurrin which is held every August in Gimli, Manitoba.

Incidentally, the Snorri programs were named in honour of Snorri Thorfinnson the first settler born in North America. His parents were Icelandic.

To honour my Icelandic heritage, I'll read my short story 'In Icelandic'. 'In Icelandic' is a short story inspired by something my Grandma Olafson overheard...

 In Icelandic 

(Please click the link to listen to me read In Icelandic)

The white-haired women were already seated when the young man climbed onto the bus. The minute he sat down, they started talking--in Icelandic.

"He's so handsome," said one of the women.

"Yes," the other agreed. "I wonder if he's married."

Her friend nudged her arm. "Oh, go on. You're much too old."

"Not for me--for my granddaughter. But if I were forty years younger."

They shared a giggle.

The subject of their attention pulled the cord requesting the bus to stop. The young man offered them a smile as he passed their bench. "Have a good day, ladies," he said--in Icelandic.

Thank you for listening, and thanks to the organizers for this evening of cultural sharing. By sharing our cultures, we all grow richer. 

You: So, Leanne, you haven't been on stage to give an author reading for at least two, maybe three years. How did it go?

Me: Well...