Looking for a book to read this summer? A great choice whether you’re lounging in the sunshine (hopefully) or curled up in a comfy chair avoiding the rain (preferably not), is Reluctant Dead – the newly released exciting third novel in the Quin and Morgan Detective series by John Moss. Previously a writer of literary criticism, John Moss was made a Fellow of the Royal Society of Canada in 2006 for his work.  Since switching to mysteries he has published two other titles in the Quin and Morgan series, Still Waters and Grave Doubts, under the Dundurn imprint Castle Street Mysteries. We asked John some questions, not only about the inspiration behind his most recent work, but also about his overall thoughts on writing and the creative process. Read his answers below!

How did you come up with the idea for this work?

Reluctant Dead brings together a number of passions I’ve nurtured over the years that led up to my writing mysteries. I have trekked over much of Baffin Island as a self-contained unit, carrying all my gear on my back as I explored the Arctic landscape and wrote about my experiences. Beverley Haun, my partner in crime, pursued research on legendary Easter Island in the South Pacific and I have had the good fortune to travel there with her on several occasions. For years it struck me that there are profound similarities between these two very different parts of the world, but it was not until I turned from academic travel writing to mysteries that I was able to bring them together. Both the lands of the Inuit and the Polynesian island “at the centre of the world” are repositories of ancestral memories only dimly perceived that still inspire their peoples to remarkable pride. I tried to capture some of this fierce resilience in a context of intrigue and mystery that would allow me to revisit both places and excite my readers with the story of a people who refuse to fade away. My perspective is through the eyes of keen outsiders – police detectives who, after being to the Arctic and the South Pacific, return to Toronto to piece together their separate stories.

In your own work, which character are you most attached to, and why?

I’m attached to all my characters. If I’m not, if we don’t connect, they’re not real. And if we do connect, they are so real to me they continually surprise me. Even my most minor characters have back stories and authentic personalities. Life is too brief to spend time with them otherwise. The featured detectives in my Quin and Morgan mystery series are first and foremost engaging humans dealing with life and death, passion and fear, logic and intuition; working homicide for the Toronto Police service through the comedy and tragedy of life under duress. Miranda Quin is in her late thirties. The reader and I share in knowing her, who she is, how she thinks, what she remembers. David Morgan is in his early forties and a very different character. And yet we meet inside his life in much the same way.

Describe your ideal writing environment.

I am a compulsive writer. In another age I might have been a voluminous diarist. I write while I’m out on the land in the Arctic and on the beaches of Polynesia, but I’m happiest with my laptop poised on my knees for three or four hours every morning, writing in front of an open fire at our old stone farmhouse in Peterborough.

What was the creative process like for you?

What we call the creative process is a phrase to describe artistic endeavours when they’re going really well. Inspiration, itself, is a foundling. There must be the desperate urge, the rage, to create. As William Blake observed, without inspiration and rage struggling together in the writer’s breast, there is no true creation. This holds true for the genre writer as much as for the laurelled poet.

 What’s the best advice you’ve ever received as a writer?

 The best advice I ever received as a writer is to go through the first draft, select all the best parts, and delete them. The best advice I’ve ever given is to write, then re-write, re-write, and re-write.

We’re happy to announce that for a limited time, you can get the very first Jack Taggart Mystery, Loose Ends, in e-book format from Kobo for only $1.99. ONLY $1.99! That’s less than your afternoon latte!

There’s no better way to get acquainted with Taggart and his ridiculously amazing undercover skills than to cozy up with his first case. Published in 2005, Loose Ends remains a Dundurn favourite.

But like we said, this is a limited offer, so don’t miss out!

Sam is a self-described “lone wolf,” with complicated relationships and a deep cynicism towards humankind. Has he always been so brash and hard around the edges?

Justine Mencken, Sam’s ex-wife, weighs in on the real Sam Montcalm.

Sam Montcalm: In the Flesh
(A Few Words from Justine Mencken)

The other week, when I was stopping in Victoria B.C., I had a visit from two tight-lipped, steely-eyed suits. Two men, of no particular age or character, men in black who said almost nothing, but conveyed as soon as I opened the door that they intended to talk to me. It didn’t appear I had a choice—they were CSIS agents, of course– and they’d come along, it turned out, to ask me a few questions about Sam Montcalm.

My name is Justine Mencken, and I was married to Sam for while, quite a few years ago. I guess the agents knew about as much about our marriage as I did—or so they thought. Actually, they knew nothing very important about anything. They had some facts, but no insights, no intuitions, no imagination. Maybe that’s why they looked like zombies.

They wouldn’t tell me why they wanted to know about Sam, so I made up a lot of stuff and fed it to them, pretending that I hated the bastard and was happy to expose his failings. My guess is that they were sent to talk to me because Sam had irritated one of the Rockcliffe politico types that he sometimes worked for. That wouldn’t be surprising, because Sam irritated a lot of people. Also, he was scared of no one. But I wasn’t going to give them anything to beat him with.

After they left I sat down and thought: what would I have told them if I’d decided to be honest. Maybe something like this:

Sam Montcalm is a complicated man, strong and vulnerable, rough-cut and elegant, easy to know but somehow aloof. He has a few unconditional loves, namely, nature, music and art– not that he can’t be critical and suspicious of his own enthusiasms, since he’s always testing his feelings, trying to come to terms with what he encounters. He enjoys people, especially people who are honest, funny, and who make an effort to connect. He doesn’t mind simplicity but hates people wrapped up in their own self-images, people who enjoy power, or pretentious fools. He’s tolerant of harmless phonies, liars and anyone who surprises him with a new side of human nature. He thinks modern government is a swindle, and that politicians are generally corrupt, self-serving and useless. He likes some traditional rituals, noble old buildings, colourful neighbourhoods, and hates suburbia, shopping centres and developers. I don’t have to tell you that he has an eye for interesting women, but he’s too much of a romantic to be a real Don Juan. It would never occur to him to think of his liaisons in terms of number.

All of this is pretty general. So let me tell you how I did with the guy. I loved him of course and thought he was the most interesting man I’d ever met. At the same time I hated the bastard, because he could be irrational, moody, jealous, fickle, and stupidly possessive. We made love, listened to music and watched flicks together. We smoked pot, argued, and threw dishes at each other.

He tried to do so much for me that I was becoming helpless and stupefied. I needed to find myself outside of him. So I turned to other guys and that was the deal-breaker. The uproar was tremendous. We were lucky no one got killed. After a while a girl needs a little freedom, peace and silence, so I took off. I think of him almost every day, good thoughts, but I’d never go back. It was a phase for me, and maybe for him– I hope it was for him, although I doubt it.

I’m not sure the guy will ever change, but if he does, I’d like to be around to see it.

****

Tom Henighan is an Ottawa writer and editor. His fiction includes The Well of Time, shortlisted for the Seal Books First Novel Award; Mercury Man, shortlisted for the Red Maple Award; and Doom Lake Holiday, a teen mystery set in Ontario’s Rideau Lakes.

Enjoy this excerpt from Jack Taggart’s second case.

ABOVE GROUND
Chapter Ten

“We’re gonna jump him in the alley. Could maybe use a man. Want in? We’ll split it three ways.”

Jack shook his head and said, “Thanks. Appreciate the offer but I don’t need any cash at the moment.”

It didn’t appear to bother anyone that the girl was about twelve years old … but it bothered Jack. He had seen child prostitutes before, but it still didn’t make it any easier. He watched her head straight to the fat man and bend over and whisper in his ear. Then she knelt beside him and ran her hand slowly up the inside of his thigh. Moments later, the girl walked out the back door.

The fat man leaned forward and said something to his two friends. They all laughed and then the fat man stood up and made his way toward the back door.

Should I bump into him and pick a fight? Deck him and save him from being another victim in the alley? Jack felt his frustration grow. Who is the real victim here? Him …or the girl?

“To hell with you, asshole,” said Jack under his breath as the man staggered past him.

Jack watched as he opened the rear door, blinking his eyes and staring into the darkness.

Immediately a tire iron smashed his face. The sound of his skull crunching above his eye and upper cheekbone was slightly audible. Before he could collapse, a hand appeared out of the darkness, grabbing his collar and jerking him off the back step. The door swung shut. 

****

Don Easton, author of the Jack Taggart Mystery series, worked as an undercover RCMP officer over a span of twenty years. He worked in foreign countries and assumed numerous false identities and witnessed horrific crimes. He survived several contracts on his life and was often targeted by both sides of the law. Past reviews by the media note that Easton is clearly writing from experience. He takes us into a world that few would dare to enter.

****

PART THREE: The Usual Suspects?

With armed guards at the door, the captain began to confide in us.

“You have to arrest him now. We’re all frightened. It’s Robinson for sure that did it.”

“Who’s Robinson?”

“The chief electrician. He’s got a violent temper. He’s a black man from Brooklyn. They were gambling — four or five of them. Hill was a big winner, almost a card sharp.”

“Wait a minute! How do you know Robinson did it? We’re here to take evidence, not to arrest anyone.”

“I saw him that night. He was carrying a bucket. At the port side after-end. Washing away the bloodstains, I know that. I didn’t want to go near him. Why don’t you talk to him right away?”

I considered this and said, “No, let’s do it this way. We’ll talk to his roommate first, then anyone else involved in any way. We’ll get Robinson’s testimony later when I know what questions to ask him.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” said the lieutenant. Esmail and I took over the captain’s cabin and began to interrogate the crew.

I enjoyed this very much. It had a touch of Perry Mason, but thanks to the eerie night atmosphere and the almost palpable fear on board the Robert Craig, there was a whiff of Macbeth. I swore in each witness and read them the following statement:

I am a Foreign Service Officer of the United States of America. I desire to question you under oath concerning the disappearance of Jimmie Hill from aboard the U.S.S. Robert Craig. Any statement that you make must be freely and voluntarily given and may be used by the government as evidence in any proceedings against you or any other therein. Do you understand?

Following this introduction, I asked the questions; Esmail took dictation, typed the statement, and each witness in turn read and signed it.

I still have the transcripts of my interrogation and I can vouch for its thoroughness. My object was to establish everyone’s whereabouts, to probe into the relationships among the gamblers, and to establish some kind of move between the cargo booms.

After the first night’s questioning, Captain Lampe approached me. “Mr. Henighan, you must have legal experience.”

Over the next few days a motley cast of characters appeared before me. I sat behind the captain’s desk and questioned everyone from Charlie the Wiper and “Sparks” to most of the engineers, carpenters, and firemen on board. Esmail recorded their testimony and occasionally suggested a line of questioning. The British guards were eventually replaced by U.S. sailors from visiting warships. And when the U.S. vessels departed, a few days later, these men were assigned to the consulate, so that Captain Lampe had guards on board during the whole time of our investigation.

I quickly extended the scope of my interrogation. Reports were coming in that Chief Electrician Cecil Robinson, the captain’s prime suspect, was behaving rather strangely. On the way to Aden, one crewman reported, he had declared, “I feel like killing someone tonight.” Before Hill was discovered missing, Robinson had asked one of the officers to examine a bucket, possibly the same one that the captain had seen him carrying near the scene of the crime. In Aden, Robinson reportedly suggested to his mates that information about the gambling be suppressed; he was also seen peering over the side to monitor the arrival and departure of the investigators, myself included.

Quite early in the game we questioned Robinson himself. He was a large well-built man in his mid-thirties and he answered most of my questions in a pretty matter-of-fact manner, but without making very much eye contact. He could not, however, establish an alibi, since no one testified to having seen him during the crucial hours of the night of the murder. He claimed to have won money during the poker games with Hill that preceded his assistant’s disappearance — although it was eventually established that he lost something like a thousand dollars.

After the interrogation Robinson declared that the next time he appeared before us to answer questions he would insist on being represented by a lawyer.

A couple of days later I got a call from Commissioner Stewart. A body had been pulled from the harbour. Could I come over and have a look?

I met Stewart and examined quite a few photographs of what was left of Jimmie Hill. It was not a pretty sight. Most of his face had been eaten away; both arms were missing and a leg. The lively sport of the midnight interrogations gave way to some serious private reflections on mortality. Aden had a way of stimulating such moments. Would I like to see the actual remains? Stewart asked. I thought not.

****

The grisly remains have been found… but will the killer be brought to justice? Find out tomorrow with the conclusion of DEATH SHIP.