I’m about to see my third mystery book hit shelves and inboxes. I thought this month I’d share an excerpt from Hung Out to Die, my first mystery book. In this scene, the main character, Riel Brava, finds a dead body — and finds himself a suspect.

FROM HUNG OUT TO DIE

I’m reaching for the hallway switch when I notice a light three doors down. That’s Norm Bedwell’s office. And that’s unusual. Our comptroller is typically among the last to arrive. Only a fresh honey cruller from Tim Hortons has ever changed his timeline.

I’m running to Norm’s office now, tirade at the ready. The only thing that can prevent the outside security system from working, aside from someone hacking into our server, is if the door doesn’t latch firmly behind the entering employee. A loud audible click lets you know the system is armed, and then you can move forward. Employees are trained to wait for the click; if they don’t, an alarm will sound for two minutes, albeit relatively soft as alarms go. But at this time of day, no one is around to hear it.

It must be Norm’s fault, which may mean the system has only been down for minutes if he just arrived. It’s a question I’m tossing at our comptroller even before I’ve stepped inside his office.

Norm doesn’t answer.

He can’t because he’s swinging from a rope tossed over an open beam (the designer’s brilliant idea), a noose tight around his neck. He’s blue, but not as blue as I believe a dead man should look. This poses a dilemma. I need a few moments to assess my options and identify the safest and most effective course of action. However, I am aware I don’t have the luxury of time. I’ve seen enough Law and Order episodes to know if you don’t call the cops immediately, the delay in time will get noticed, and you’re more likely to find yourself on the suspect list.

Dammit. I’m a suspect.

This realization hits at the same time I’m dialing 911. The perky young woman on the other end asks how she can help.

“I’m in the administrative office of the Canadian Cannabis Corp., and my comptroller appears to have hanged himself. He is dangling from a noose and turning blue.”

“Sir, I have radioed for police; they are on their way,” she says, inhaling to continue with her script.

I cut her off. “Look, I know I shouldn’t disturb anything, but Norm may be alive. I’m going to grab his legs, so the noose doesn’t cut into his windpipe.”

Great, now she knows I understand how hanging kills someone.

Itdoesn’t matter. I’m going to reduce the pressure around Norm’s neck. His feet are tucked into the crease in my left arm, his testicles on par with my bottom lip. I’m not a small man, 6’2”, and I work out regularly, so I can maintain this, albeit a distasteful posture, for quite some time.

I hear sirens, and it hits me. The police won’t gain access to the building without destroying expensive technology. I explain this to the 911 operator. She is not that interested in the cost of our tech.

“I’m going to get someone to open the gate for the police,” I tell her. “That means I’ll have to hang up. I’m on the third floor of the admin building, inside the only office with a light on. My name is Riel Brava. I’m the CEO.”

Food seems to weave its way into my writing uninvited.

In my latest book, Conflagration!, food is the foundation for a friendship that springs up in 1734 between the main character Philippe Archambeau, a court clerk, and the jailer he befriends. Lunch becomes a means to extract information, then it becomes much more.

In my first book Hung Out to Die the main character, an American transplanted to Nova Scotia, discovers the delicious joy of the donair. Many people have never heard of this juicy, meat-filled, garlicky concoction, but it is the official food of Halifax. Popular history says the donair – spicy meat wrapped in a pita and embraced with lots of sweet sauce – was invented in Halifax in the 1970s where it rapidly became a must-have menu item for late-night partiers, snackers, and food aficionados.

As my main character, Riel Brava, discovers, the donair can be a little difficult to eat. There is an art to juggling a stuffed pita while licking sauce off your face and adjusting foil wrap to get more donair in your mouth.

The recipe below avoids that dilemma. It’s an appetizer compliments of the Dairy Farmers of Canada. I have adapted the recipe slightly.

Let me know how it tastes.

Donair Dip

Ingredients

• 1lb (450g) lean ground beef
• 1 tsp (5 ml) dried oregano
• 1 block (250 g) cream cheese
• 1 cup (250 ml) shredded old cheddar cheese (or cheese of your choice)
• 2 tsp (10 ml) paprika
• 2 tsp (10 ml) garlic powder
• 2 tsp (10 ml) onion powder
• 1/2 tsp (2,5 ml) salt
• 1/2 tsp (2,5 ml) black pepper
• 1 cup (250 ml) donair sauce (see below)
• 1/2 diced tomato (optional)
• 1/2 diced onion (optional)

Donair Sauce

• 1 can (300 ml) sweetened condensed milk
• 1/3 cup (80 ml) white vinegar
• 1 tsp (5 ml) garlic powder

Preparation
1. Add all ingredients in a bowl and combine.
2. Preheat oven to 350 °F (180 °C).
3. Cook the ground beef and the spices together, mix well in a frying pan.
4. Drain off excess grease.
5. Mix the softened cream cheese, cheese and Donair sauce together.
6. Place ground beef mixture on the bottom of 9”x9” cooking dish (or equivalent).
7. Add the cheese and Donair sauce mixture on top of the ground beef mix.
8. Bake for 20 minutes.
9. Top with diced veggies after removing from oven (optional).
10. Serve hot or cold with tortilla chips or baked pita slices.
11. Enjoy!

This article of mine appeared in The Globe and Mail. I wanted to share it with you at this time of year when life is bustling and busy. May you find joy.

I understand the appeal of showers. There is a functionality and practicality to stepping in, under and out. How efficient. How equally unimaginative and boring. In the shower, there is nothing to savour except getting the hell out from beneath 50 pounds per square inch of pulsating water. The fact that showers are measured in psi (as opposed to bubbles) speaks volumes.

But I am a splish-splash person. I relish the warm web of water that embraces you in the bathtub. I enjoy being able to put my head back, relax and wash away the day. I like taking my time, meandering in my mind and humidifying at my own pace.

 Baths were a way of life in our house. Growing up, showers were simply something other people took, mostly people we did not know. I kept this tradition up even after I moved out of my parents’ house, into a marriage and through the divorce that followed. But it wasn’t until years later that I discovered my understanding of the bath and its possibilities had been severely limited.

 It started with a gift of life-altering implications. Inside the present I discovered bubble bath, a bath bomb, exfoliating lotion and glove, and moisturizer. Two of these I’d heard of. The scent was lavender, which I associated with wrinkled aunts and my grandmother’s underwear drawer.

Turns out, I couldn’t have been more wrong.

I filled the tub with steaming water, poured in the bubble bath and the most wonderful scent filled the room. I smiled, bent down and breathed deeply. Not my smartest move. Inhaling bubbles is not recommended. But it didn’t matter. I was happy. And about to get happier.

I stepped into the tub and unwrapped the bath bomb. This is never as easy as it sounds. They often come in a plastic sheath that has no identifiable opening and the tensile strength of tungsten. I persisted. The result was a round, heavenly little orb that exploded when it hit the water. Gently, of course, and with a colour infusion that filled the tub with a lovely glow. The exfoliating lotion and glove were next. I felt the resistance of the glove on my skin. Perhaps even a snag or two. Then, softness.

This time I spend with bubbles, bombs and bath salts is as much about ritual and reverence as it is about self-care and luxuriating. I realized this one blissful Saturday night as I was about to lower myself into a meringue of eucalyptus suds and my husband strolled into the bathroom, lifted the toilet lid, and got ready to whizz.

He won’t do that again.

There is a rhythm to my bathing ritual. There is a pattern and a process. Nothing is rushed, there is room to inhale and time to exhale. The rhythm has become more sophisticated over time. I once received a candle but admitted to my husband that I was unlikely to use it. He suggested I light it in my bathing shrine (and all was forgiven).

Today, my bathing shrine includes 10 burning candles: five small, three medium, two large. There is also a tealight candle that burns inside a Himalayan salt holder, another gift from a good friend. (I am blessed with friends who indulge my bathroom bliss.) In addition, I discovered aromatherapy. And there is music, most recently with the chirps and tweets of birds in the background.

I doubled down on my commitment to ritual and reverence when my husband and I decided to do some redecorating. My bathroom tub is now no ordinary tub. Who knew paradise came in porcelain? This tub has jets that shoot heated streams of water at select body parts, LED lights infuse a delicate glow in the water and there is a heated backrest. An aromatherapy unit sends little fragrant clouds aloft every 20 seconds. Poof!

The bathroom, and the tub in particular, is an expense I no longer attempt to justify. But I have spent some time trying to understand it. Logically I know that self-care is important. Taking time for oneself is time well spent. I’ve read the books (okay, an article or two) about the benefits of finding space from the pressures of daily life. But that sounds clinical and what happens in my shrine is anything but. It’s about connection – and distance. It’s about finding oneself – and forgetting about the self for a few hours. It’s about feeling pampered – and humbled.

One night, I turned on the tap, poured the juniper bubble bath and Epsom salts into the tub and waited to be enveloped in a fragrant mist.

And waited.

I did not have hot water.

Ultramar’s message centre assured me help was on the way. I felt a nudge of joy.

That did not last. The repair guy wasn’t ruining his Saturday night because some woman’s bath water wasn’t hot. He eventually showed up but he needed a new part. Bottom line: I had to wait several days.

I did not hide my disappointment. The repairman did not hide his indifference. I was not happy about the emergency call service fee that still left me without hot water. I think he flipped me the bird on his way out.

But Monday came, the water heater was fixed and the bath was full of hot, inviting H²0. But this time I breathed in more than the latest release from Bath and Body Works. I realized at that moment that my shrine, wrapped in relaxation and reverence, is really about gratitude. It’s about being thankful to be here and thankful to be. Gratitude isn’t just about being personally thankful and appreciative, though, it is about extending that thanks to the world around you. It’s about grace.

I have taken that insight to heart. I remind myself now to smell the rose water before I speak out; to soak up the moment before rushing to the next task.

And I have apologized to the man from Ultramar.

This past holiday there was a special present under the tree – my new novel Conflagration! This is the seventh book in BWL Publishing’s Canadian Historical Mysteries series, and it takes us back almost three centuries to New France and an era when slavery was surprisingly and sadly commonplace. I’d like to share the opening pages with you.

CHAPTER 1
Montréal
Friday, April 9, 1734

Mud is everywhere. It defines Montréal in April. The snow continues its laborious melt, the ice in the St. Lawrence jostles the shoreline, the clouds hover relentlessly close to earth, and everywhere there is heavy, wet, sticky muck. It adheres to the sides of shoes, the bottoms of coats, and the brims of hats whipped to the ground by winds, there one minute, gone the next.

I look down. My boots are caked in grime, a primordial ooze from the earth, from under the sea, from crevices unknown. I will spend much of this evening cleaning heels, toe caps, and outsoles only to have more mud adhere tomorrow. These caked brown scars are visible reminders that I am not at home. Not at home in this town. Here I have no roots, no history.

Home is Acadie, another world away in another part of New France. My home, admittedly, has mud, but it is the mud pigs roll in to cool their skin, the mud farmers use to build dykes, the mud kids make patties with under the spring sun. Montréal mud is a nuisance, a bother, a reminder of life’s inconveniences.

I am feeling sorry for myself. I am missing my family. It happens. I accept the ache, acknowledge its origins, and move forward, literally through more mud. I remind myself of Madeleine, my wife. She makes life in here bearable. She makes life breathable.

The afternoon sun hides behind clouds. But even in disguise, its demise for the day is evident. Soon it will be dark. I need to push onward, deliver these papers, and make my way home before nightfall. Before the mud becomes invisible, and treacherous. The ground is still hard and much of it frozen; mud will not break a fall, but it will cause one. I need to be careful. For Madeleine.

* * *

François de Béréy’s home is large by Montréal standards. Indeed, it is large by any standard. It rises three floors in the heart of the merchants’ quarter on rue Saint-Paul where it announces its presence to fur traders and aspiring businessmen without saying a word. It sits across from the Hôtel-Dieu de Montréal, the town’s convent and hospital. Three sisters in full habit are outside getting, I assume, a much-needed break from the rigors of tending to the ill and the injured. Immediately, I feel guilty for my selfishness, for a little mud. I nod at the three nuns acknowledging their presence and, I hope, their worth. The three women nod back.

I turn away and knock on the door in front of me. A young servant girl answers. She is about seventeen, dark brown hair pulled back in a bun, pleasantly overplump. She wears a white apron. Her head is bowed. “Philippe Archambeau pour Monsieur de Béréy, s’il vous plait.”

The young woman scurries off. She is back in a few seconds. She ushers me into the foyer. She does not look at me.

My business is over as quickly as it began. Documents delivered, and my day is done. The sun is struggling with the horizon, and losing. I would like to be home before it cedes the daily battle. I hurry down to the street. Two women are talking at the bottom of the steps, a servant and a Panis slave. They turn their backs to me and continue their conversation. As I walk past, I hear only one word: conflagration.

The Panis woman, likely, I thought, from a tribe south of Montréal, turns in my direction as I pass. It is a vacant look; I doubt she even sees me. But I see her. In two days, I will put a name to her face: Marie-Manon.

* * *

A heavenly aroma greets me as a walk through the front door. We live several streets away from the merchants’ quarter, on rue Saint-Antoine, closer to where I work as a court clerk. Madeleine knows somehow today was a long day and a hot beverage will be welcome. The tea, a Bohea blend infused with orange peel, is a special treat. It helps to warm my chilled bones and reassure my feet they will work tomorrow. Madeleine places my boots at the front door. I will tackle them later. Supper is hot and satisfying, smoked ham with potatoes, cabbage, and onion. More tea follows the meal. As does conversation. This is our time. Madeleine listens with her ears and her heart. This is my favorite time of day.

And I talk about mud. My wife knows I am not really talking about mud but about Montréal, this town that is my home and not my home. “There is mud in Acadie,” she says gently. She pats her stomach, almost absently, and reminds me that soon this town will also be the home of our first child.

“I’m sorry.” It’s the least I can say. What I can do is make our conversation what it should be and what it usually is: meaningful.

“I was in the lower town today.”

Madeleine smiles. “I bet it was muddy.”

“I saw a Panis slave. My guess, she is from the Fox Nation. Sold to someone here.”

“You see slaves every day. Yet you remember this one.”

“You are, as usual, right. I saw several slaves today on rue Saint-Paul alone. And a young servant girl. It all disconcerts me still.”

I am familiar with slaves. We have slaves in Acadie, but they work the farms, the field, the land as we all do. They seem part of the landscape. Perhaps they do not feel that way. I say this out loud to Madeleine. She does not dismiss the notion as odd as it may be in this town of 3,000 people that includes hundreds of slaves, maybe more.

“Do these slaves look differently to you? Do they act differently?”

They do not, and they do. “It is the vacant stares, the abbreviated eye contact. It does not sit well in my heart.”

“Another cup of tea will solve that.”

I will come to realize that what I see is the look of those imprisoned. It is the face of those who have no means of escape. Later I will associate it with the wall that surrounds Montréal.

I hate that wall. It closes me in. It is supposed to make me feel safe. It doesn’t.

* * *

Madeleine is sleeping. She sleeps a lot these days. I understand her body needs this even though she fights it. My mother also slept when she was with child, my brothers and sisters.

I take the last of the tea, reheated on the hearth. Madeleine would not approve. She would make a fresh pot, and we would talk. Tonight, she sleeps, and I look at the stars. They are the same stars I see in Acadie. And they are not.

From my front door, from most front doors, the wall is not visible. It is as if it does not exist. But we all know it surrounds us. Or almost surrounds us. For nearly twenty years, Gaspard-Joseph Chaussegros de Léry has planned, managed, and propelled the building of ramparts literally designed to protect Montréal from its enemies, primarily the British. New France’s chief engineer will see this wall finished, this town cocooned in stone.

The wall is flanked. Anyone who dares attack Montréal will know what faces them before they ever arrive at these ramparts. That is deliberate, and doable in large part because the town lies on moderately flat land. Curtain walls and strongholds and drawbridges and posterns span 3,500 metres. We are fortified in black limestone and grey crystalline.

The wall speaks to the power of France, and to the consideration of our King, Louis XV, and his famous great grandfather before him. It exudes authority.

It also promotes the trades. Montréal is flourishing inside these ramparts. The wall requires stone fitters and masons. Sawyers and blacksmiths and haulers are also needed. There is enterprise in the rise of these enclosures.

The wall speaks as well to those who seek to make money. It says, “You are safe here. Your business will thrive.”

With the wall comes commerce, particularly fur trading. Businesses spring up around this endeavour. Indeed, Montréal is a trading post. Where there is trade, there is community and the shops, markets, and supports needed to bolster and enshrine a town. In the time since the wooden palisade that once circled Montréal was replaced with this new wall, approximately 400 houses have been constructed. And the wall is not yet finished.

Of course, prosperity requires judicial overwatch. Our courthouse bustles with the legal business of business. It also punishes, as it must, those who dare to defy the King’s laws. I know this firsthand. I sit each day in that courthouse. I record the testimony of those who walk through its doors. Many faces are familiar. Many are unknown.

None will leave as great an impression as the twenty-five who will walk through its doors in the next twenty-two days.

My latest mystery book took me back in time and out of my comfort zone. Conflagration!, a historical mystery set in Montreal in 1734, raises issues about slavery in Canada and introduces us to a justice system that is distinctly different from 2024.

I posed 10 questions to the book’s main character Philippe Archambeau, a court clerk assigned specifically to document the case of Marie-Joseph Angélique almost three centuries ago.

His answers are below. (Hint: You can also find them in the book.)

1. Are lawyers a cornerstone of the justice system in New France?
   Witnesses are a cornerstone of the French judicial system. We do this without lawyers. We do not allow lawyers to practice in New France. We are not English.

2. Is evidence critical to a conviction?
   I turned to the Criminal Ordinance of 1670 and other legal documents for this question. It does not take me long to find what I am looking for. Rumor alone constitutes legal grounds for accusing, arresting, and convicting an individual.

3. Does the accused get to face their accusers?
   Confrontation is part of the judicial process. It enables the accused to deny accusations directly. It gives witnesses the opportunity to rethink, perhaps to revise, their earlier testimony.
   
4. Is torture an acceptable punishment?
   The Criminal Ordinance permits torture for serious crimes. There are reasons for this. Torture can help extract a confession. This is important to get to the truth of a matter. There is also the issue of accomplices. Torture can help to draw out names that would otherwise die on an accused’s lips.
   
5. What are brodequins?
   The brodequins are very effective. Misleadingly and accurately called laced boots or tight boots, this particular form of torture involves packing a person’s legs between narrow boards tightly bound. Wooden wedges are then pounded between board and human flesh. Bone breaks. Boards do not.
   
6. Are individuals presumed innocent until proven guilty?
   French law says all accused are presumed guilty. The accused must prove their innocence.
   
7. What is the punishment for a capital crime like arson?
   The punishment: death, torture, or banishment. Or some combination of those. Being found guilty will mean an end to the life someone knows regardless of the punishment.
   
8. What is the Code Noir?
   The Code Noir explicitly states how slaves are to be treated in New France. It discusses punishment and freedom of movement, or more accurately, lack of movement. The Code also requires that all slaves convert to Catholicism. It is an owner’s responsibility to ensure this happens. Sooner rather than later.
   
9. Is there an appeal process?
   Mais oui! The appeal judgment would be rendered by the Conseil Supérieur in Québec. It is the foremost judicial body in New France. Their decision will be final.
   
10. Does Montreal have its own prison? Is there a jailer?
    There is a prison, of course. It is attached to the courthouse – and it is where the jailer lives.

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