Excerpt from The Skeleton Paints a Picture

September 26, 2017





Flakes had just started falling out of the slate gray sky as I walked to the faculty parking lot Friday afternoon, but since students were within earshot, I waited until I was inside my minivan to express my opinion of the swirling bits of frozen aggravation. The fact that only a couple of inches were expected that evening was no consolation.

It’s not that I have anything against snow. I was born and raised in New England, and while my so-called career as an adjunct English professor has involved moving all too often, I’ve never lived anywhere that didn’t require a winter emergency kit that included a fold-up snow shovel, a blanket, and a bag of cat litter for traction on icy roads. But not only was Falstone in the snowiest part of Massachusetts, with an annual average snowfall second only to nearby Ashburnham, this year was turning out to be one for the record books.

I felt as if I were driving through a tunnel as I pulled onto the street that ran past Falstone College of Art and Design—FAD to its friends. There had been five major storms in the past month, and the weather hadn’t warmed up enough for appreciable melting, so the exhausted snowplow drivers were running out of places to push the snow. That meant the piles on the side of the road and in every available median strip were getting higher and wider, and the roads were getting narrower and narrower.

As I drove, I could see brush, rocks, even shopping carts partially buried in the icy piles. My students were starting to make jokes about missing classmates who wouldn’t be found until the next thaw.

I just wish they’d been the only ones to get that idea.

Finally, I made it back to the bungalow I was borrowing from one of my parents’ friends for the semester. Snow was still falling, and it was already half an inch deep on the long driveway I’d cleared just the day before, meaning that another session with the snowblower would be due in my near future. I trudged up the sidewalk—which would also need clearing—and was cheered to see two big packages waiting for me on the front porch. Both had my parents’ house in Pennycross as the return address, but the labels were typed, so I didn’t know if they were from Mom, Phil, or my daughter, Madison. Nobody had warned me they were sending anything, which was unusual, but maybe they’d wanted to surprise me.

I grabbed the box on top and left the other on the porch while I divested myself of the coat, hat, scarf, and gloves that winter in Falstone required. I was about to go back for the second box when there was a ping on my phone. I pulled it from my pocket and saw that my best friend, Sid, was texting me.


SID: Hi, Georgia. Did the packages arrive?

GEORGIA: Good timing. They came today.

SID: Open 1 of 2 first!


I checked the box I’d lugged in. It was labeled 2 of 2. Of course. I dropped the phone on the table in the hall, opened the door just long enough to drag the package inside, and went to track down a pair of scissors. I was on my way back to the front hall when I heard my phone ping again.


SID: Aren’t you going to open the box?

GEORGIA: Give me a minute!


There was another ping, indicating that yet another text had arrived. Only, it wasn’t from my phone. It had come from inside Box Number One. I , then sent another text.


GEORGIA: I’m trying to find the scissors.

BOX: Ping.


I briefly considered shoving both packages back out onto the porch, but I knew that would only be delaying the inevitable. So I slit the tape on the top of the cardboard box and lifted up the flaps. Inside, nestled in a bundle of old T-shirts, was a pile of clean white bones and a cell phone. Plus a skull with a very big smile.

As I watched, the bones snapped together with an uncanny clatter, and within seconds, a human skeleton was standing in front of me with bony arms flung wide.

“Surprise!” Sid said.










It sounds scarier than it was. I admit that it would have been trauma-inducing for most people, but most people hadn’t grown up with an ambulatory skeleton for a best friend. Sid had come to live with—or at least to stay with—my family when I was a child, so I was blasé about Sid walking, talking, and assembling himself at will. Mailing himself to me, however, was new.

“Sid, what are you doing here?”

“I came to keep you company!”


“Don’t I get a hug?” He gave me puppy dog eyes, an impossible feat for a bare skull that he was really good at. So, of course, I hugged him.

Hugging a skeleton is kind of like hugging a coat rack—only, a coat rack doesn’t hug back.

I helped him step out of the box. “Do Mom and Phil know you’re here?” I couldn’t imagine my parents would authorize this shipment without checking with me.

“Not exactly, but… Hey, we can catch up later. I want a tour of your new digs!” He dashed away, rushing from room to room. I suppose it was pretty exciting for him. Sid only rarely left my family’s home, for obvious reasons, and his opportunities to explore other houses had been limited. So he oohed and aahed over everything as we roamed through the eat-in kitchen and the living room. The bungalow had been intended as a summer cottage, and the decorations were determinedly rustic: exposed wooden beams, braided rag rugs, and vaguely Native American patterns on the upholstery.

“Is there an attic?” he asked.

“There is, but it’s packed full of the owner’s things.”

“That’s all right. I can bunk in the living room. Or the kitchen. I don’t need a bed, right?”

“There’s a spare bedroom, but—”

“Perfect!” He trooped down the hallway, opening doors as he went. “Just one bathroom? Well, it’s not like I ever use it. I can tell this is your room. I recognize your mess. Maybe I can clean while you’re at work. And this is my room! Kind of small—”


He held up one hand. “No worries. I don’t need much space. And bonus! The curtains are nice and thick, so nobody will see me in here. I’ll just go get my things.”

“Sid, why don’t we sit down and talk first?”

“Just give me a minute to unpack.”

“Sid! Sit.”

He plopped down onto the bed, and I sat next to him.

“Now talk.”

“Okay,” he said, with the tone of voice my daughter, Madison, uses when I catch her doing something she shouldn’t have. “No, your parents don’t know I’m here. I printed out postage and put the boxes in the front hall, then left a note asking Dr. T. to finish taping up the box and leave me on the porch for the mailman to pick up.”

“And he didn’t want to know what it was you were sending me?”

“He may have thought the note was from Mrs. Dr. T.”

“Why would he have thought that?”

“Because I signed it ‘Dab.’”

“But why—No, first things first. I need to let them know you’re here. They must be worried sick.”

“I doubt it,” he said with a sniff. “They probably haven’t even noticed I’m gone.”

That didn’t sound good. I got my phone from the front hall and texted home.


GEORGIA: Sid is safe with me. I’ll explain later.


Then I went back to the bedroom that Sid had laid claim to. “So what’s going on? Have you guys been fighting?”

“You have to talk to somebody to fight with them.”

“Oh. Then they’ve been working long hours.” My parents had only recently returned from an extra-long sabbatical and had restarted their jobs at McQuaid University after the first of the year.

“No, they’re home plenty, but since they’ve already started collecting grad students, the house is always full of strangers. I think they’re feeding a dozen students breakfast and dinner, and I’m pretty sure a couple of postdocs are spending half their nights on the living room couch.”

My parents had always attracted and ministered to needy grad students, a hobby that had gotten more pronounced once I’d moved out. And of course that meant Sid was stuck up in his room in the attic, or if he got caught downstairs, he was trapped in the armoire in the living room where he could listen in but couldn’t exactly socialize.

“What about Madison? Isn’t she spending any time with you?”

“I’m sure she would, but you know how brutal sophomore year is. Between rehearsals for Drama Fest and choral ensemble, she’s barely home, and when she is, she’s got homework. And the mutt to take care of.”

I suspected it was the time Madison spent with her Akita, Byron, that bothered Sid the most. He was never going to be a dog person.

“Deborah?” I asked.

“The only time I’ve seen her is when she came up to the attic to get one of her storage boxes.”

My sister and Sid had never been as close as he and I were. “I thought you guys were getting along better.”

“It’s not that. It’s because she’s busy, too. Juggling two boyfriends is taking up a lot of her time.”

“So what you’re saying is that you’ve been lonely.” After years of mostly being confined to the attic, circumstances had finally changed enough that Sid could hang around with the rest of the family. Having to go back to isolation must have been harder than ever.

He hung his skull. “I know I should have asked first, Georgia, but I was afraid you’d say not to come. And from your e-mails and all, I thought maybe you were lonely, too.”

“Are you kidding? With texting and e-mail and Skype, it’s practically like I haven’t gone anywhere. And for the first time in years, I get to be on my own! I can set mealtimes by my schedule, go out whenever I want, stay up as late as I choose, pick what to watch on TV, and play my music extra loud. I can even use real cuss words, instead of skeleton-related euphemisms.”

As I spoke, Sid’s bones loosened, which was a sign that he was unhappy. Since he holds himself together by pure force of will, weakened will means weakened connections.

I went on. “And I have never been so miserable in my life.”

It took a second for that to sink in. “Really?” he said tentatively.

“Really. Yeah, I’m glad to have a teaching job, and it’s great that Madison didn’t have to switch high schools, and I know my parents love having her to themselves. But I hate this. I know almost nobody in town and there’s not much town anyway. I had no idea how much snow they get around here, and the weather has been so awful that I don’t dare drive home on weekends for fear of not making it back in time for Monday classes and getting fired. Of course, we’re going to have to establish some ground rules while you’re here, but I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you!”

Sid’s bones were tightly connected once again. “I’ll go get my stuff.”

It didn’t take us long to unpack Sid’s belongings because he hadn’t brought much. He didn’t wear clothes and didn’t need toiletries, so all he’d brought was his laptop and accessories, a few books, and his favorite DVDs: The Nightmare Before Christmas, the Toy Story trilogy, and The Lost Skeleton of Cadavra. All of that was packed neatly in a small rolling suitcase that I used to tote Sid around when the need arose.

“Planning a field trip?” I asked, looking at the suitcase.

“I figured it wouldn’t hurt to have it around. Just in case.” He looked at me hopefully.

“We’ll see,” was all I’d commit to.

Just as we got everything put away, my parents called back for an explanation of why Sid had gone AWOL. That got tricky because Sid was at my elbow insisting that I not put the blame on them, but they finally accepted my excuse that he was feeling restless. The fact that there were three grad students at their house during the phone call provided a good explanation of why he’d felt hemmed in.

Once that was addressed, the evening was one of the best I’d had since arriving in Falstone. We made dinner—which only I ate, of course. Then we settled in to watch TV and I caught Sid up on my not-overly-thrilling adventures teaching Expository Writing at a school dedicated to visual arts.

When the snow wound down, we went outside to shovel. This was a new experience for Sid. My parents’ house was in the middle of town, and though it had a good-sized yard, the fence wasn’t high enough to allow him to move around safely out of doors. The bungalow was much more isolated, on a large lot with no neighbors within easy view. The grounds behind the house were filled with trees and stretched out for yards. Not that I had any interest in going back there, since the snow had already been too deep for easy access when I moved in at the beginning of the semester.

Just to be extra careful in case somebody randomly decided to venture down the driveway, I had Sid swaddled in a spare parka, jeans, boots, gloves, and ski mask so he looked semi-normal.

I expected him to fuss about having to wear all that, but he’s always loved costumes. Even if he hadn’t, he was having too much fun playing in the snow to mind. Sid actually enjoyed shoveling snow and liked running the snowblower even more. His snow angel didn’t work out very well, but he loved throwing snowballs and was just as happy when I returned fire.

It was with the greatest of reluctance that I finally dragged him inside so we could thaw out. Or rather, so I could. Bare bones don’t feel the cold.

After a cup of hot chocolate to warm me up, I headed for bed, and since Sid doesn’t sleep, he settled in for an all-night session with the stack of books I’d bought since I’d been in Falstone. I didn’t know about him, but I felt happier than I had in weeks. What with being kept inside so much by the weather, the house had been starting to feel claustrophobic. Now, with Sid in residence, it felt like home.

With one thing and another, we didn’t get around to establishing any ground rules for his stay, which I had cause to regret at three thirty in the morning. That’s when I woke up with Sid’s skull hovering over me.

“Georgia, wake up! You’ve got to come right away!”

Crooked as a Dog’s Hind Leg

September 6, 2015


Back in 1993, I started publishing my Laura Fleming mysteries about a young woman who left home to to go to college, married a Yankee, and moved up North. On her vacations, she came back to Byerly, North Carolina to solve mysteries. (A lot of this was true about me, too, except I lived in Charlotte, NC and I never got into solving mysteries.) The series ran for eight books, all of which are still available as ebooks and Audible downloads. But those eight books don’t tell you everything that happened in Byerly.

As I was writing the series, and for a few years after, I’d go back to Byerly for short stories. There were seven all together, and they were published in magazines and anthologies that are long since out of print. A friend — and she knows who I’m talking about — kept pushing me to produce an electronic collection, but I was hesitant. I’d never done a project quite like this and, of course, I was worried that nobody would want to read the stories except the one friend. But she’s persistent, and after republishing the eight Laura Fleming novels, I decided to take a shot at collecting those Byerly stories.

Getting ready for publication wasn’t as easy as I’d expected. I had the original story files, but it took help from the family tech specialist — my husband Steve — to get them opened because the programs in which they were written are obsolete. After that, I had to compare them with the published versions, since the galleys back then were on actual paper, and re-make all the corrections the anthology and magazine editors made. Then I had to proofread them, along with help from the persistent friend and Femmes Charlaine and Dana. But that was all details. The real tough part was reading them again.

Folks, I was scared to death of rereading stories that were written so long ago. What if I hated them? What if I was embarrassed by them? What if I was just bored? But it turned out not to be so terrible. Okay, there are places I wish either I or previous editors had been more vicious with red pencils, and sections I’d never write like that today. I even found some out-and-out errors that I could now fix. But overall, I’m happy with the result.

“Gift of the Murderer” was my first published short story. My editor of the time, John Scognamiglio of Kensington, called one day and said, “You write short stories, don’t you?” “Yes,” I lied. Honestly, it wasn’t easy to make myself write short instead of novel-length, but I guess he liked it, because he asked for another story for an anthology the next year. “Marley’s Ghost” is an homage to Dickens, and some of the issues raised in it led me to write the novel Mad as the Dickensyears later. Those two stories are the only ones in the collection to actually include Laura Fleming and her Shakespeare-quoting husband Richard.

“The Death of Erik the Redneck” was an Agatha nominee, and features Byerly’s Chief of Police Junior Norton investigating a kind of Viking funeral. “An Unmentionable Crime” is about Sue, one of Laura’s cousins, and was inspired by admiration for women who really understand how to fit customers with bras. “Bible Belt” isn’t actually in Byerly, but is set in the neighboring town of Rocky Shoals, and characters from it show up in Byerly later on. It was published in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, and through oddities of timing and the mail service, I found out about the sale when I met editor Janet Hutchings at the Malice Domestic banquet. That story was nominated for the  Anthony and the Macavity awards.

“Old Dog Days” has Junior Norton’s father. It was originally written for a book that never happened, which just goes to show that writers never throw anything away. With “Lying-in-the-Road Death,” it was back to Junior again. I had that title floating around in my head for years before I finally wrote the story to go with it.
After all was said and done, I rather enjoyed going back to Byerly, and Crooked as a Dog’s Hind Leg will be published on September 8, 2015. I hope people will want to come back to Byerly, and maybe some newcomers will want to visit, too.

Excerpt from The Skeleton Takes a Bow

September 1, 2014

The Skeleton Takes a Bow

by Leigh Perry

Chapter One

I should have known better than to let Madison talk me into letting Sid appear in Hamlet. Of course, he was made to play the part she had in mind for him. Like Yorick, Sid was a fellow of infinite jest and most excellent fancy, had borne me on his back a thousand times, and his flashes of merriment were indeed wont to set the table on a roar. More to the point, Sid and Yorick were both dead. But while Yorick is usually depicted as an inanimate skull, the Thackery family skeleton is a full set of bones and he is quite thoroughly animated.

It started on a Friday in late March, a few days after the Pennycross High School Drama Club held auditions for its production of Hamlet. My teenaged daughter Madison had spent most of the afternoon conferring with Sid in his attic room, and when they finally emerged, they cleaned up the kitchen, washed and folded two loads of laundry, and gath- ered the garbage and recycling to take out to the street—all without being nagged. So of course I’d known they were up to something.

Over our spaghetti dinner Madison said, “They announced the cast for the play today. Becca Regan is going to direct, and she’s great.”

“Excellent!” Madison had joined the drama club as soon as she started attending classes at PHS, but it had been too late for her to be in the fall show. This time she was ready. “What part did you get?”



“He’s one of Hamlet’s friends. Claudius brings him and Rosencrantz in to try to cheer up Hamlet and then uses them to—”

“Sweetie, I know who Guildenstern is. English degree, remember? It’s just that I thought you were going for Ger- trude or Ophelia.”

“I was, but so were all the other girls in the club. There are only two good female roles in the play, after all. Guil- denstern will be interesting.”

“Are you going to be the mature one this time? I want to know before I start complaining about club politics, playing favorites, and so on.”

“Tonight I will be playing the role of maturity incarnate.”

“Okay, then. They gave you such a small part because you’re a freshman, right? And a new kid?” Even though we’d moved so often that Madison was remarkably adept at fitting herself into a school’s society, some schools were more insu- lar than others.

“Maybe, but to be fair, Becca doesn’t know me well enough to know if she can rely on me to carry a big part. This is her first time directing a show, and you can’t blame her for wanting to go with a known quantity.”

“Yes, I can. Especially if you gave a better audition.”

“Oh, I nailed that audition!” Then she remembered that she was being mature. “Of course, we both know that plenty of people audition and get a role, then don’t even bother to show up for rehearsals.”

“Please. She could have checked your resume and real- ized that you were dependable enough for more than a small part.”

“There are no small parts, only small actors.”

“Which you are not, so you are going to rock that part!” “Agreed. Besides, there are a lot of even smaller parts. And Tristan, the guy playing Rosencrantz, is really cool and we get to hang out together at rehearsal. He’s a really good actor and would have been a great Hamlet, but the guy who got it is good, too, and he really looks the part. He’s got that whole dark-haired emo thing going on—Tristan is blond.”

I resisted asking the questions that sprang immediately to mind: Is Tristan cute? Is he cool for a boyfriend or just as a friend? Does he have a girlfriend? When can I meet him? In other words, all the questions that were guaranteed to make Madison’s hackles rise. If she was going to be mature, I should take a stab at it, too. “So are you going to be a female version of Guildenstern, or dress in male drag?”

“Drag!” she said happily. “We talked about setting the show during the twenties or something, but decided to go full-out Elizabethan. Tights, swords, doublets. Jo Sinta is doing costumes again, and she’s so excited!”

“Sounds great. I look forward to it. Just let me know the rehearsal schedule so I can put it in my book.” As an adjunct English professor, my classes tend to be at those odd times that full-time profs don’t want, and I also have to keep office hours. Keeping up with that while monitoring the activities of a busy teenager was a constant challenge.

“There is one thing I wanted to ask about, schedulewise.” Madison looked at Sid, and I knew the moment had come for them to ask whatever it was they’d cooked up earlier. “You know high schools have to work with tight budgets.”

Sid spoke for the first time since we’d sat down to dinner. He doesn’t eat, of course, but he likes keeping us company during our meals. He also likes sneaking tidbits to Madison’s Akita, Byron, under the table, not because he likes the dog but because he was hoping to convince him that there were much better treats available than Sid’s own bare bones. He said, “I think it’s shameful that the arts are so poorly supported in public schools. I’d like to do more to help.”

There was a thump under the table that I interpreted as Madison kicking Sid in the shinbone. Had she known him as long as I had, she’d have known that, unlike her, he never could stick to a script. But I’d known him most of my life, while she’d only been formally introduced to him a few months before.

Madison said, “Becca said we’re going to spend most of our budget on the costumes. That’s the way they did it back in Shakespeare’s time.”

“I know. English professor, remember? Even adjunct faculty members are familiar with the way Shakespeare’s work was originally produced.”

“Right. So we’ll have some props and scenery, but they’ll be minimal, whatever we can scrounge up. And today Becca 1S pulled out this really awful papier-mâché skull and said we’d be using it for the grave-digging scene.”

Sid assumed a dramatic pose. “‘Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy—’ ”

There was another thump under the table.

“Anyway,” Madison said emphatically, “I thought that the scene would play so much better with a more convincing skull.”

“Like Sid’s?” I asked.

“What a great idea, Georgia!” Sid said, and I think he was trying for enthused surprise. He’d have never made it through an audition if that was the best he could do.

“Nice try,” I said, “but we all know it wasn’t my idea—it was yours and Madison’s.”

“Was doing the laundry too much of a giveaway?” she asked.

“Just a bit.” Not that I was complaining—it meant fewer shirts for me to fold. I took a healthy bite of spaghetti so I could chew on it and the idea simultaneously. “Do you have any idea how you would work this out?”

“It’ll be easy,” Madison said. “I’ll take Sid to school with me and keep him in my locker until rehearsal.”

“You’re going to take all of Sid?”

“No, just the skull.”

“I’m fine with that,” Sid added.

He really was eager. Usually he hated to be separated from the rest of his bones because it made him feel so help- less. The essential part of Sid—I never know if I should call it his soul, his consciousness, his ghost, or his memory chip—travels with the skull, which means that when the skull is elsewhere, the rest of his bones are just that, a pile of bones. He could move the rest of his skeleton from a few feet away, but not from as far away as the high school. On the plus side, I wouldn’t have to worry about a skull-less skeleton wandering around the house getting into trouble.

“Won’t you get bored cooped up in a locker all day?” I asked.

“I’ll put him on the shelf in front of the vents,” Madison said, “so he’ll be able to watch people.”

Since Sid was an enthusiastic eavesdropper and peeper, I could see how that would appeal to him.

She went on. “I’ll take him with me to rehearsals, then bring him home every night. All we need is some sort of padded bag to carry him in, and Aunt Deborah has an old bowling bag she’s not using anymore that would be perfect.”

“You told Deborah your plan?”

“No, no. I just noticed the bag the last time I was over at her place.”

That was a relief. My older sister had grudgingly accepted that Sid was a part of the family, but I was pretty sure what her reaction to this plan would be. My initial feeling was the same, but after all the cleaning they’d done, I owed Sid and Madison a chance to convince me.

So I listened to the rest of their pitch as I finished my plate of pasta. Madison’s argument that it would add a vital element to the play’s success didn’t sway me much. Yorick’s skull appears onstage for exactly one scene—as long as the skull they used onstage was approximately the right shape and color, it would be fine. It was Sid’s plea that really got me. Once he abandoned his “support the arts” platform, I could see how much he really wanted the chance to leave the house and spend more time with Madison.

Sid had moved in with us when I was six, but for obvious reasons, he only rarely left the house. As long as I’d been living at home, he’d had me for company, but once I moved out, he’d spent most of his time alone in the attic. Since I’d come back to Pennycross for a job at McQuaid University, and was house-sitting for my parents while they were on sabbatical, his life had been far more interesting. He had me and Madison to hang with, Byron the dog to fuss about, and when he discovered the Internet, a whole new world to play in.

But still, he hadn’t had an opportunity to actually leave the house for months, and this sounded like it might be a safe way to allow him a little more freedom. After obtaining pinkie swears from them both—Sid’s that he wouldn’t play any tricks and Madison’s that she’d be exceedingly careful with him—I agreed.

But late that night, after I went to bed, I started counting up the ways it could go wrong. The problem was, I couldn’t go back on my word to my daughter and my best friend, no matter how much I wished I’d never let them talk me into it.


Chapter Two

My misgivings were proven all too correct just three weeks later. Madison had just started down the street to take Byron for a walk when I got home from work, even though it was after five. Knowing that she usually takes him out first thing after she gets back from school, I deduced that she’d had a long day. So while she tended to his needs, I went inside to tend to hers. In other words, I thawed out some of the chili we’d made and frozen the weekend before and baked a can of crescent rolls. Since it was Thursday, we’d just about run out of fresh supplies from the previous weekend’s shopping trip, but there was enough produce left to toss together a salad.

I had everything ready by the time Byron dragged Madison back in, and while she washed up, I made sure all the curtains were closed tightly for privacy before I went to the bottom of the stairs and yelled, “Sid! Dinnertime!”

Sid doesn’t eat, of course, or even drink, but he usually likes sitting with us during meals. But this time, there was no answering clatter of bony feet.

“Sid? Are you coming down?”

Madison came out of the bathroom with an expression of guilt it didn’t take a mother to interpret.

“What?” I asked.

“I left him at school.”

“You did what?”

“I left Sid at school!”

“Madison! How could you—?”

“It’s not my fault. I had to take that makeup Spanish test after school, and Senora Harper made me wait until after she finished tutoring some kids, and then the test took for- ever so I barely made it to choral ensemble. Then Samantha’s wheelchair was acting wonky so she needed help pushing it outside, and I couldn’t just leave her outside alone with her chair messing up, especially since her mother was late. Then when she finally showed up, they offered me a ride home, and it was so late and I was so tired—”

I held up my hand to stop the flood of excuses and asked, “Where is Sid?”

“Well, I didn’t remember the test until after I’d gone to rehearsal, and we weren’t working on any of my scenes today anyway. Only Becca wanted to keep Sid because she wanted to work on the graveyard scene, which I said was fine, so she said I could come pick him up later. But I had that Spanish test and—”

“Madison! Where is he?”

“He must still be backstage in the auditorium.”

“Fine. We’re going to go get him.” I grabbed my purse and car keys, and she followed me out to our somewhat battered green minivan.

Rush hour was in full swing, something I usually manage to avoid by virtue of working in university settings that don’t keep standard business hours, and even in a town as small as Pennycross, the delays were annoying. Madison, realizing that I hadn’t bought her explanations for why it wasn’t her fault, was sunk in silence and I was too mad to say anything to make her feel better.

Had I been totally honest with her, I might have admitted that I was blaming myself nearly as much as I was her. I should have noticed sooner that Sid wasn’t clattering around in the attic. When a person has no skin to mask the sound, and no reason to keep himself hidden, it can get pretty noisy. I’d figured he was on the computer, catching up with his myriad Facebook friends and Twitter followers.

Though the parking lot was nearly deserted when we got to Pennycross High, the two cars parked near the front door gave me hope that somebody would be available to let us in. No such luck. I pounded on the door repeatedly and Madison trotted all the way around the building to see if she could find a door that had been left unlocked, but there was no sound from inside the building. After fifteen minutes of raising as much of a ruckus as we dared, we admitted defeat and got back into the car.

We were halfway back home when Madison said, “I’m sorry, Mom. It was my fault.”

“No, it was mine. I should never have let you talk me into letting Sid be in the play.”

“But he’s been having so much fun!”

“And now he’s stuck at the school all night. Alone.” “At least it’s not Friday—one night is a lot better than the whole weekend.”

She wasn’t even convincing herself, and I was not appeased.

I warmed up the chili and rolls in the microwave when we got back to the house, but neither of us had much appe- tite. Afterward, Madison dove into her homework while I graded student papers. I’m afraid my students paid the price for my bad mood—I wasn’t as patient as I usually was with grammar mistakes and confusion over syntax.

The night seemed long and empty without Sid, and once Madison went to bed, I snuck up to his attic room. With his skull gone, inhabited by whatever it was that kept Sid mov- ing and talking, the rest of his bones were abandoned on the couch. Normal skeletons, meaning the kinds of specimens I see fairly often in the halls of academe, are held together with wires and bolts. Sid holds himself together, so the pieces he’d left had no reason to stick together. It was vaguely creepy seeing him like that, but I suppose it would have been creepier still if his body had been wandering around blindly, searching for his skull.

Byron was standing at attention outside the attic door when I got back downstairs, so I carefully closed it behind me. It was bad enough that we’d left Sid at school. I didn’t want to think about what his reaction would be if we let the dog gnaw on his bones while he was gone.


Chapter Three

Usually Madison rode her bicycle to and from school, but the next day I drove her and her bike, hoping she’d be able to get to the auditorium and grab Sid so I could take him home right away. Unfortunately the cheerleaders picked that morning to rehearse for a pep rally, so we had to postpone our apologies until later.

I blew off my office hours that afternoon and was back at PHS when the bell rang. Madison ran out to where I was waiting, gave me the battered black and purple bowling bag Sid been riding to and from school in, and jumped on her bicycle to take care of an urgent errand.

“Sid, I am so sorry,” I said as soon as I started driving. I’d unzipped the bag so he could hear me better, knowing that if anybody saw me talking, they’d assume I was on a cell phone.

“Georgia, we need to talk,” Sid said, his voice a little muffled from still being in the bag.

“I know, I know, this was unforgivable. We went to the school as soon as we realized you’d been left behind yesterday, but the doors were locked and nobody would let us in. Madison beat herself up over it all night long, and she really wants to make it up to you, so she’s at Wray’s Comics right now looking for something special to get you as an apology present.”

“Forget the manga,” he said. “This is important.”

“Of course it is, but you know we’d never have left you there all night on purpose. It’s just that Madison had to make up that Spanish test she missed when she was out sick last week, and it took longer than she expected, and she had choral ensemble practice after that, then went to help Samantha, and she just forgot to come back by the auditorium to get you.”

“It’s okay, but—”

“It’s not okay!” By then I’d arrived at the house. “Hang on until we get inside.” Normally I’d have zipped up the bag, even for the short walk from the driveway into the house, but under the circumstances, I just couldn’t do it.

As soon as I was in the front hall with the door firmly shut, I pulled Sid out of the bag to continue apologizing face-to-face. Or at least face-to-skull.

“Okay,” he said, “it’s not okay and I will be happy to let you and Madison grovel for the next month. Maybe two. But right now I have to tell you something.”

“Okay, what is it?”

“I witnessed a murder.”

“Excuse me?”

“Last night, somebody killed a man in the high school


For the rest of the Family Skeleton’s latest adventure, read The Skeleton Takes a Bow from Berkley Prime Crime, available as a paperback, ebook, and Audible download.

Evolution of a Cover

February 19, 2014

Okay, we aren’t supposed to, but we all do it. We judge books by the cover. So as you might guess, there is a lot of back-and-forth and creative wrangling over every book cover.

Take, for instance, my alter ego Leigh Perry‘s upcoming Family Skeleton mystery The Skeleton Takes a Bow. We went through all kinds of ideas. First was the most obvious.


Unfortunately, it was the wrong kind of bow. Sid the Skeleton never wears pink. So we went back to the drawing board.


Very Hunger Games, and goodness knows Sid looks hungry. But this wasn’t quite the bow we were looking for, etiher. Besides, we left out the arrow. Is he going to shoot his ulna or his radius?

Back to the drawing yet again.


This time it looks a little too Titanic, and the bow of a sinking ship wasn’t quite what we were going for.

In fact the bow in the book is the kind an actor makes after a successful performance, say as Yorick in Hamlet.


We finally had the right kind of bow, but unfortunately, Sid’s skull wouldn’t stay on long enough for him to pose.

So what does the cover look like? You’ll have to check out BOLO Books on Feb. 18 to find out and see how you’d judge this book from its cover.

A Nifty Time to Be a Writer

October 18, 2013

My first novel, Down Home Murder–the first Laura Fleming mystery, was published over twenty years ago, but as is more common than not with fiction, it went out of print long ago. I wrote eight books in that series, and there was a never time when all of them were in print at the same time.

Then I moved on to the Where are they now? series, and wrote three books in that series. All of them are out of print, too.

But here’s the nifty thing about being a writer today. Every one of my novels is available again! 

Earlier this year, Audible brought out audio downloads of every one of the eight Laura Fleming novels:


As soon as those were up, they put out the Where are they now? books:


Don’t like audio books? No problem. I’m in the process of re-publishing the Laura Fleming books as ebooks. (They were never published in that format before because the format didn’t exist.) The first four books are already out, and with luck the rest will be live by Halloween. You can find links for all of the platforms here:


I cannot tell you how much this delights me. None of these technologies existed when I started writing, yet now my earlier books live again.

Moreover, in between writing novels I’ve co-edited a slew of anthologies with Charlaine Harris, and they’re all available as paper books, ebooks, and audio books. A Skeleton in the Family, my brand-new book written under the pen name Leigh Perry, is out in all those formats, too. 

Just thinking about it makes me grin.

Now I admit that there are plenty of challenges for the writer today. But right now, I’m really enjoying the feeling of having all my books in print at one time. It’s a nifty time to be a writer.


Interviewed by Writers Who Kill

August 7, 2013

That title sounds a bit more provocative than I expected. What I mean by it is that today I’m interviewed by the talented Paula Benson at the Writers Who Kill blog. Paula has read my new book A Skeleton in the Family, and has all kinds of questions about the book, the series, and my new pen name.

To take a look, go HERE.

Goodreads Giveaway

July 31, 2013

My alter ego Leigh Perry has asked me to post that she’s got a giveaway running on Goodreads. If you’re on Goodreads, just follow that link before August 20 and enter to win an ARC (advance reader copy) of  A Skeleton in the Family along with this cuddly skeletal sock monkey:

Skeletal Sock Monkey

The link for the giveaway is HERE.

By the way, I do realize that the giveaway page has and old title and my real name instead of my pen name. I’ve got a note into Goodreads to try and get that fixed.

Games Creatures Play

July 28, 2013

Just an update on Games Creatures Play, the forthcoming anthology from Charlaine Harris and myself. As the cover copy says, “Sports fans live and die by their teams’ successes and failures—though not literally. But these fifteen authors have written spirited—in more ways than one—new tales of killer competitions that would make even the most die-hard players ask to be benched.”

The book won’t be out until April 1, 2014—just in time for some season for baseball season.  Until then, you can check out the all-star team members we’ve assembled and the sport or game they’ve written about.

Jan Burke—Dodge ball
Dana Cameron—Pankration
Adam-Troy Castro—Hide and seek
Charlaine Harris—Softball
Toni L.P. Kelner—Candlepin bowling
Caitlin Kittredge—Darts and other bar games
William Kent Krueger—Hide and seek
Ellen Kushner—Fencing
Mercedes Lackey—Stock car racing
Joe Lansdale—Boxing
Laura Lippman—Ice skating
Seanan McGuire—Roller derby
Brendan DuBois—Lacrosse
Brandon Sanderson—Cops and robbers
Scott Sigler—Baseball

They’re all MVPs to us!

An Open Letter to Nate Bell

April 20, 2013

I haven’t posted here in ages, but here’s something my erudite husband Steve sent to nitwit Nate Bell, who is a blight upon the lovely state of Arkansas. It makes me proud of Massachusetts, and particularly proud of my husband.



Dear Sir:

Part of my family came over here with the Pilgrims, seeking religious freedom. Another part fought in the Revolutionary War. Another fled persecution under the Tsar and came here during WWI. I am myself a proud son of New England, and without the people of Boston and Massachusetts, especially John Adams, you would not be living in the United States today. Both Washington and Jefferson said that Independence would never have happened without John Adams, truly one of the original Massachusetts liberals, a proud and gutsy man who even defended the Redcoat soldiers of the Boston Massacre, because it was the right thing to do.

That same kind of pride and bravery showed itself on the day of the Marathon bombing, when hosts of those “Massachusetts liberals” you demean ran toward the explosions, to help people. And those same Massachusetts liberals took in those who had no place to go. One Massachusettsian was so tough that after having both legs blown off, as soon as he woke up he wrote a note about the bombers he had seen, and spoke to the cops, in accurate and telling detail. (http://bangordailynews.com/2013/04/19/news/nation/boston-bombing-victim-who-had-legs-blown-off-helped-identify-suspects/)

We weren’t “cowering in [our] homes.” And your so-called apology for the timing and not the content does not satisfy me, nor will it the many brave people of Massachusetts who are wholly uncowed by terrorists, and who, even as I write this, are hunting them down. We shut down our city to go after them. Mess with this city and these people at your peril.

I strongly suggest you apologize for your insults to the people of Massachusetts; whether we share your political views or not, your implication of cowardice is better aimed at the terrorists than our citizens. Perhaps you would have cowered under your bed without your AR-15, but we wouldn’t, and we didn’t.

Shame on you.

Stephen P. Kelner, Jr.

The Next Next Big Thing

December 6, 2012

As with last week, I’m blog hopping or perhaps, hopping blogs. I was tagged to share the answers to the following questions about my forthcoming book, and will tag another writer to share news about her new book.

My tagger was my good friend Dana Cameron. We beta read for each other, meaning that we read the other’s works-in-progress to make suggestions. I’ll confess that Dana has kept me from making many bad writing choices. (I’m not having her beta read this post, though–she’s taking it on faith.) One thing I beta read for her was her upcoming novel Seven Kinds of Hell, so I can brag that I was one of the first to read it. Don’t worry, you’ll get a chance to catch up very soon, and you’ve got a treat in store for you.

Before I get started, I want to explain something. In her blog hopper, Dana referred to my forthcoming book The Skeleton in the Armoire. That was indeed the title last week. But the publishing world is a dynamic place, and yesterday it morphed into A Skeleton in the Family. With either title, the book will be coming out under my pen name Leigh Perry.

Now for the questions:

Where did the idea for this book come from?

Honestly, I don’t know. All I know is when.

In May of 2004 I sent an email to Dana telling her about this idea I had for an ambulatory skeleton named Sid who would solve his own murder. Dana patiently  gave me background information about skeletal specimens in universities and museums, and I wrote a few passages. About two weeks later, I sent a note to Charlaine Harris, my other beta reader. “I’ve got an idea for a new story or book–don’t know which, yet–and want to see what you think.  It’s probably too silly for works, but since you and Laurell and Dean and Maria have the vampire market by the throat, I thought I’d try something new.  Would you read this snippet and see what you think?” Then I pasted in a piece of what has become A Skeleton in the Family.

Obviously, at some point there must have been a moment when I said, “I think I’ll write a mystery about an ambulatory skeleton,” but I don’t know what led to that moment. Maybe too many daiquiris?

What genre does your book fall under?

Mystery, or to be really specific, cozy woo-woo. In other words, it’s a traditional mystery with paranormal elements. Sid the Skeleton is the paranormal element.

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

The only way A Skeleton in the Family could make it to the screen would be as animation or using serious CGI. So I’m going to pick Andy Serkis, famous for his portrayal of Gollum in The Lord of the Rings. He’s the only one I can imagine playing Sid.

What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book? 

Georgia moves back home and has to deal with the family skeleton–an actual skeleton named Sid. He walks and talks and makes bad jokes, and now he wants to solve his own murder. (I know, that’s two sentences. I suppose I could have faked it with really creative punctuation or CGI…)

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

A Skeleton in the Family will be published by Berkley Prime Crime, and I’m represented by Joshua Bilmes of the JABberwocky Agency.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

Eight years. Or eight months. It depends on what you count. You see, I wrote bits of the book in summer of 2004, but got pulled away to work on other projects. In February of 2011, I pitched the idea to my editor, Ginjer Buchanan, and included an excerpt an synopsis. But it wasn’t until March of 2012 that I really sat down to write. I finished the first draft in October.

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

I think I’ve got the skeleton mystery market all to myself. In terms of a ridiculous person in a normal world, I think A Skeleton in the Family is more like the Francis the Talking Mule movies, The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, and TV sitcoms like Bewitched and I Dream of Jeannie.

Who or what inspired you to write this book?

See the above overly detailed explanation of where the idea came from. Once I got started, I was inspired by stories I heard of adjunct faculty members and how it can be a precarious way to make a living.

What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

Georgia, the protagonist, is a single mother with a teenaged daughter who works as kind of itinerant academic. She’s just started work at a New England college, and in the course of the book visits an anime convention and a carnival, fights with her perfect sister the locksmith, reluctantly adopts a dog, and has a romance. So there’s a lot going on. But the fact is, if the walking, talking skeleton doesn’t grab you, I may as well give up. Ditto if it puts you off.

These are the fascinating people that Dana tagged along with me:

Kat Richardson’s novel Seawitch was #3 on the Locus Hardcover Bestseller list for November! She lives on a boat, which is just nifty.

Christopher Golden is the award-winning, best selling author of (deep breath!) fiction, non-fiction, adult and YA, collaborations, and comics. I don’t think he sleeps.

Elaine Viets has two ongoing series: the Helen Hawthorne “Dead End Job” mysteries, and the Josie Marcus “Mystery Shopper mysteries.”  Elaine and I are both members of the Femmes Fatales (as is Dana), and she’ll be posting her Next Big thing blog there.

And here’s the writer I’m tagging next!

Deborah Meyler and I met online through mutual friends–one of the joys of the internet. The Bookstore, Deborah’s first novel, will be out in August 2013, and sounds like tremendous fun. If you read both The Bookstore and A Skeleton in the Family, you will note that we both use the phrase “enamel chili.” I don’t think we’ll say why that is…