Hushpuppies, High School, and Joe Lansdale's Head

Wendall--every other Thursday 

The world, and a looming tax appointment, is too much with me this week, so I am turning back to one of my favorite weekends of 2024. May we all wind up at McIntyre's Books, for Crime Scene Mystery Bookfest, or just for a browse. Thanks, Pete! 

Last weekend I was honored to be included in the second CrimeScene Mystery Bookfest at McIntyre’s Books in Pittsboro, NC. Indulge me while I gush a little. 

 

 

Rabbit photo-op.

First, the store sits in the charming Fearrington Village, which features a few lovely places to eat and drink, tons of gifts items, one of the premier eateries in North Carolina—the Fearrington House Restaurant—and a gorgeous Inn. 

 

Fearrington House is an institution.

 

Pete and friends in the Village at night.

 

The whole thing sits amidst acres of hills and ponds and ancient trees, not to mention a few sculptural sheep!

 

So many lovely places to walk, and stop.

They almost look real. . .

Until you get up close.

It also has the advantage of being a two minute drive from my all-time favorite North Carolina-style barbecue joint, Allen and Sons, where I went with a dear friend I’ve known since I was twelve. Let’s just say hushpuppies were had. . .

 

An annual tradition.

CrimeScene is the brainstorm of Pete Mock, who curates the mystery book room in the store with the kind of intensity and discernment that landed him on the cover of Our State Magazine. Many of you probably know Pete, either from doing signings in the store, or running into him at one Bouchercon "Noir at the Bar" or another. He loves crime fiction, and his generosity towards writers is legendary.

 

He has been particularly kind to me, even down to book placement! I can't think of another bookstore where Cyd Redondo would land on a bookshelf with Carl Hiassen, Craig Johnson, Louise Penny, Ace Atkins, and Lee Child.

 

Fogged Off in proximity to Squeeze Me? I can die now.

 

The store’s owner, Keebe Fitch, was an incredible host and everyone who works in the store, or came to volunteer, made it one of the loveliest events I’ve ever attended.

 

The panels all took place in the legendary Barn.

 

This is just the entrance...

This is the inside. What a great venue.

And then, I met Joe R. Lansdale. He was the Guest of Honor and has been one of my heroes for years. Even sitting behind him was heady stuff. 

 

Joe's head. Proximity is everything!

  

He was very tolerant of my blabbering admiration, made me laugh, told some heartbreaking and hilarious stories about working with Bill Paxton and Sam Shepard, bought one of my books (!) and signed his.

 

I appeared on the “Humor and Homicide” panel, moderated by the wonderful Sara Johnson (The Bone Dead), to commiserate with Tim Maleeny (Hanging the Devil) and Mark de Castrique (Dangerous Women) about the challenges of making murder funny. 

 

Getting ready.

Our panel. These folks crack me up.

Ready to sign in Pete's Mystery Book Room.

The rest of the day featured an illuminating interview with Joe Lansdale, and great panel conversations with Thomas Mullen, Kevin Powers, Eli Cranor, Rebecca Renner, Martin Clark, Jamie Mason, Katy Munger, JG Hetherton, David Joy, and Juliet Grames. 

 

Katy Munger interviews Joe from the front.

Pete, introducing Jamie Mason, Tim Maleeny, Kevin Powers, and Thomas Mullen.

Of course, the weekend was especially great for me, because I grew up about fifteen minutes from the store. At one point in the day, seven of my friends from high school (and junior high!) were together in the signing room. It was so great it made my heart hurt. Friends from college, and even my old boss—the former head of the UCLA Professional Program—attended. It was a fabulous day.

Me with people I've known forever. So grateful they showed up.

And a few more old friends.

 

The other highlight of the day was the awarding of the "Beltie" prize, Pete's choice for Best Mystery of the Year. It went to Michael Bennett's Better the Blood.

The publishing world can be tough, but being part of the mystery community and this network of writers, readers, booksellers, and librarians is a privilege I never take for granted. Thanks, Pete, Keebe, and everyone at McIntyre’s Books for making me so happy to be a crime writer.

---Wendall

BOUCHERCON HIATUS: My September 11, 2001

We’re still at Bouchercon, doing all the things that make hanging out with friends and fans worthwhile, but I’ll leave the telling of those tales to others.  After all, “What happens in St. Louis stays in St. Louis.”  Though I must admit, Dan, I'm having a really hard time not saying at least something about Ysra bringing that sheep's head into the hotel bar.

Today’s post was written at the request of a New York City-based newspaper to be part of its 9/11 10th year commemorative issue.  I was asked to talk about where I was that Tuesday morning.  Here is what I wrote. 

I like it over here by the United Nations.  Beekman Place is different from other New York City streets; it’s more like a quiet, residential private road in an elegant European city.  My walk to my office is down First Avenue overlooking the East River and alongside the gardens and flags of the UN.  It gives me a few daily moments of serenity and escape from the often out of control state of my life as a lawyer here.

I need this walk today.  The sky is so blue and clear, except for the few smoke-like clouds on the downtown horizon.  I’m up by the UN General Assembly Building when I call my friend Panos to find out how his date went last night.  He’s frantic and says he can’t talk.  He’s waiting for his mother to call him from Greece.  I ask if everything is OK.  He says she’ll be worried when she hears that his office was struck by a plane.  I must have misunderstood him.  He works in the World Trade Center.  He says his office building is burning and he has to get off the phone.

Those are not clouds on the horizon, it’s smoke.

I tell him to get out of the building.  He says it’s not necessary.  He’s okay.  His date kept him out late and he’s still at home.  He’ll go to work in the afternoon, after the fire is out.  He hangs up.

How could a plane have hit the World Trade Center on a day as clear as this one?  Something must have happened to the pilot.  I hear sirens everywhere and move a little faster toward my office.  By the time I get upstairs everyone is looking out the windows on the south side of our building.  It has an unobstructed view of the Towers.  Now they’re both burning.  I’m told a second plane hit the second Tower.  We all know what that means—even before learning about the Pentagon.  Someone tells me a plane hit Pittsburgh, my hometown.  I can’t believe what I’m hearing.  I call my daughter, she lives in Greenwich Village.  She’s frightened.  We all are.  I tell her to keep calm. My son is in Cincinnati, I’m sure he’s safe but I can’t reach him.

We’re all glued to the big screen TV in my law firm’s main conference room.  The first tower begins to fall and we turn en masse from the television to look out our windows as it crumbles to the ground before our eyes.  It’s surreal, it can’t be happening.  But it happens again.  Not a word is said while we watch the second tower fall.   We are at war.  But with whom?

My mind can’t fix on what all this means.  I focus on a rumor that there’s an imminent biological anthrax attack and race to the pharmacy for enough antibiotic for my daughter.  That’s something I can do.  Again, I think, my son is in Cincinnati.  He’s safe there.

When I moved to NYC in 1969 my first job was blocks away from the Trade Center site.  The Towers were in the midst of construction and I saw them every morning across the Brooklyn Bridge as I’d head to work.  In August 1974 I watched Philippe Petit do his high wire walk between them, and three years later glimpsed at mountain climber George Willig scale one in the wind.  Even after moving my office uptown they were always in view from my window.  They spanned my career as a lawyer in NYC.  I can’t believe they’re gone.

 

The City is in shock.  Lines of thousands of refugees from downtown are trekking up Third Avenue toward home or simply to somewhere other than where they were.  No one is talking.  The smell is everywhere, acrid and bitter.  There seems to be grey dust on the shoes of every cop and will be for days.

I stop at a restaurant halfway between my office and home.  It’s Greek and run by a friend.   It’s the only place I can think of to go.  There is no one at home and I can’t get downtown to my daughter.  She’s fine.  Panos comes in.   I try making a joke about his date from last night.  I say he should marry her, she saved his life.  It’s not that funny.

A half dozen or so young men and women of about the age I was when I started working in NYC are sitting quietly at a table along the front windows.  A cell phone rings—one of the few that must be working—and one of the women answers.  She’s a dark haired girl.  She listens, shuts her phone and starts sobbing.  She says something to the others; they hug each other and cry.

Damnit.

It’s after midnight by the time I head home.  My cell phone rings on the way.  It’s a friend from Capri in Italy.  He’s been trying to reach me all day to see if I’m okay.  I hang up and continue home.  I’m tearing.  Friendship like his is what life’s all about.  Family and friends are what matter.

A week later I drive to my farm, get in my pickup and head to Pittsburgh to visit my brother and sister-in-law.  I decide not to go back to NYC but drive south, toward the Outer Banks of North Carolina.  I’ve never been there before, but it just seems the place to be.  I have to drive by Washington, DC to get there.  It’s only when I see the first sign for DC that I realize I’ve made an unconscious pilgrimage past the three sites of the 9/11 massacre—NYC, Western PA, DC.

 

Duck, NC is chilly in the off-season and the ocean is wild.  I lock myself in a hotel room overlooking the sea and complete my first novel.  I’m driven to make something good come out of all of this bad.  A week later I drive back to NYC.  I’m on the Jersey Turnpike heading north and close to the City, but I can’t tell where it begins.  Its southern landmark is gone.  This world is insane.

A few years later I give up my life in NYC and move to the Aegean island of Mykonos to pursue my dream of writing mysteries exploring the heart and soul of Greece.   There is no reason to wait any longer.  Is there?

Jeff—Saturday