A Christmas Pomodori
It all started with a weekend retreat. Don’t mysteries always start like that? (Well, some of them.)
It’s like the beginning of a typical forties noir film. Think of a battered private dick, his face wrapped in bandages, trapped in a blindingly bright spotlight at the Hollywood police station. All in black and white with lots of shadows. The police want to know about a murder. When he starts talking, the scene dissolves into a flashback.
Except in my case, everything was in color, in the twenty-first century, and by the San Marcos River in Central Texas–not Hollywood.
What on earth are you talking about? I hear someone mutter. Why, I’m flashing back to how I wrote my fast-paced, hard-pulsing, heart-stopping crime melodrama, Holly Through the Heart, a live radio play done in person for an enthusiastic (I hope) audience (captive) of Sisters in Crime:…
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