"The Rich and the Dead"

By Pat Remick

By the time you read this, I will be en route to New York City for tonight’s launch party for the new Mystery Writers of America anthology “The Rich and the Dead” edited by Nelson DeMille and featuring 19 additional mystery writers, including Michael Connelly, Lee Child, S.J. Rozan and Frank Cook.

 You might be wondering about the last guy, but he's the one I’m most interested in seeing at The Mysterious Bookshop tonight because he’s my spouse -- and critique partner. And now the man I occasionally refer to as Husband No. 1 also will be known as the author of the fabulous short story “The Gift.” We were ecstatic when the Publishers Weekly review named it as a standout in the anthology.

Tonight he and Nelson DeMille will be together not only in “The Rich and the Dead,” but also at the launch party. If you look at the alphabetical list of authors, he’s next to Michael Connelly, too. How cool is that? Here’s the list:

Ted Bell, Peter Blauner, K. Catalona, Tim Chapman, Lee Child, Michael Connelly, Frank Cook, David DeLee, Nelson DeMille, Joseph Goodrich, Daniel J. Hale, Roberta Isleib, Harley Jane Kozak, David Morrell, Caroli Mullen, Twist Phelan, S.J. Rozan, Jonathan Santlofer, Elaine Togneri and Angela Zeman.

For those of you unfamiliar with the MWA anthologies, they are published annually and edited by a well-known mystery author who asks nine colleagues to contribute stories. The remaining 10 slots are filled with tales selected by a panel of judges from a pool of  “blind submissions” by MWA members.



Pat Remick & Frank Cook

Frank and I both sent in stories for consideration after each reviewed the other's story. We've been editing each other's work for over three decades now and I can truly say that everything I write is better because of him. We've successfully co-authored two professional development books but when we attempted to write a mystery novel together, we concluded our marriage was more important. Now we stick to editing only when it comes to fiction.

As you might imagine, there was great rejoicing when his story was chosen for the anthology (as was a story by my fellow New England Sister in Crime Roberta Isleib), although I admit to a tinge of regret that mine was not. But I laughed when Frank explained, "This just shows I know more about being rich and dead than you do."

Since Frank hasn't shared the "being rich" -- or dead -- things with me, perhaps I need coaching in these areas. Last week I read about a new web site, ExpertInsight.com, that offers one-to-one video chats with "coaches" who are leaders in their fields. For example, you can video chat with Nobel Price-winning economist Gary Becker for $5,000 an hour, according to the Bloomberg News article. I doubt he could provide any insight into being dead, but I bet he could tell me about the rich part.

There aren't many authors on the site yet, but it got me thinking. If I had an extra $5,000 and could talk to any author in the world about writing, who would it be? There are so many wonderful possiblities that it's likely I'm still pondering that question even as you're reading this.

Who would you choose -- and why?

DUSTY BITES THE DUST

by Gina Sestak

Dusty was a nasty cat, wiry and rough-furred.  He was a stray before my mother took him in.  He bit anyone who touched him and ate like a ravenous beast, clearing his own dish in seconds, then chasing her other cat away to gobble that one's food as well.   She told me Dusty never purred.

In 1997, facing surgery, my mother asked me to take Dusty to a shelter.  I refused.  She asked my brother and, when he refused as well, tried to get a neighbor to do it.  I offered to let Dusty stay at my house.  She told me I'd be sorry.  

And so I caught the cat and drove him to my place.  Dusty bit me, too, and scratched.  He yowled all the time, pacing the rooms like a prisoner, and attacked me while I tried to sleep.  When I permitted him to go outside, he invaded a neighbor's home through a cat door and sprayed her furniture.  I tried to keep him in the house after that but, one day when I came home from visiting my mother in the hospital (the surgery hadn't gone well), Dusty was gone.  He had managed to find a weak spot in the bottom of a basement door and force his way out.  The broken boards were pushed outward, coated with gray fur where he'd squeezed through.

I put up signs in the neighborhood, placed ads in the newspaper, posted to a missing pet site, and asked around, all to no avail.  I called the shelters.  Whenever my mother asked, "How's Dusty?" I would lie and say, "He's fine."

Several weeks after he disappeared, I got a call from the Humane Society.  Pittsburgh Animal Control had picked up a cat who matched Dusty's description.  They were planning to euthanize him; he had bitten one of their workers, and so was deemed unsuitable for placement.  

I didn't recognize Dusty at first.  He was emaciated, having lost 4 of his 12 pounds.  When I tried to pet him, my fingers encountered dozens of splinters in his neck and shoulders.  These souvenirs of his escape convinced me of his identity.

I paid a fine and brought him home.  

Dusty had never seen a veterinarian.  I took him in and got him treatment for a respiratory infection and a tape worm - no wonder he'd been hungry all the time!  His rough fur became soft and glossy.  I pulled out the splinters.  Still, he continued to bite and yowl.   Stressed out by my mother's worsening health, I would lose all patience and just scream, "SHUT UP!  SHUT UP!"  It didn't help. 

At wit's end, I decided to change the rules.  I told him that, from then on, any time he opened his mouth I would interpret his yowling as a request to be petted.  I began to grab him, hold him down, and pet him 100 strokes every time he meowed.  To my astonishment, he liked it.  He began to purr.  He would follow me from room to room and sit on my lap, chewing my buttons, or go to sleep with his head on my feet.  He would sometimes even fall asleep with his head in one of my shoes -- the first time it happened, I was afraid he'd passed out from the smell, but he was only dozing peacefully.

When my mother passed away in September 1997 her other cat joined us, and Dusty welcomed him as a long lost friend.  Dusty always wanted to play and, if Taffy and I weren't in the mood, he would bite us until we chased him.   The cats shared duties as my bed companions and de facto alarms clocks, making sure I got up at 5:00 a.m. for work every morning, even on weekends and holidays.  While Taffy was content to wake me with a purr, Dusty would hide over the side of the bed and pop up to bite my toes until I'd get up.  

In recent years, both cats developed age-related health problems.  Dusty's heart began to murmur, and his kidneys to malfunction.  I took him to the vet every month or so for monitoring tests and gave him daily medication.  I restricted his diet and bought expensive food he hated.  

Last Tuesday afternoon, Dusty went outside.  When I checked on him a few hours later, I found him dead on my back porch.  The vet examined the body and pronounced it a natural death.  The vet said Dusty didn't suffer.

And now I miss him.  He used to greet me at the door whenever I came home.  He would come when I called.  He liked to snuggle up and purr.  He even appeared in a short film for me, my first project in a Motion Picture Fundamentals class.  The assignment required taking a dozen or so black & white photographs, then using them to construct a moving-stills film with music.  I called it Dusty Seeks Enlightenment:

Wherever Dusty is now, I hope he's found enlightenment and peace.