Please make sure to leave her some love in the comments and check out her books.

Thanks so much for having me on, Stacy!

First off, a bit of an introduction. I’m a Maine-based, live-aboard sailor and author of the award-winning Maine Island Mysteries—a series that grew out of my love of the Maine coast and its rugged, self-sufficient out-island communities. During the summer months, my husband and I spend as much time as we can cruising those islands, especially those in the Penobscot and Casco Bays, which is where the series was born—a series I’d never planned on writing.

A number of years ago, on a stormy sail back from Mt. Desert Island (mid-coast vacation playground of the early 20^th century Rockefellers and, more recently, domestic diva Martha Stewart), we took refuge in the small harbor at Matinicus Island—rugged home to centuries of warring, trigger-happy lobstering clans. This is not only the most remote inhabited island on the eastern seaboard, it’s surrounded by some of the most crustacean-rich waters in the world.  The lobstermen who make their living fishing here are understandably territorial, and protect their fishing rights in whatever manner they deem appropriate.  Most of these guys actually carry rifles in their wheelhouses. There are no police on Matinicus (no officialdom of any kind, in fact), no banks, stores, restaurants, doctors or hospitals—though there are a couple of EMTs for those inevitable brawls.

Perfect place for a mystery, right?

I should mention here that I not only live on my boat, I do most of my writing there, so I immediately began a novel called simply Matinicus (May, 2012), featuring the hard-drinking, bachelor botanist Gil Hodges—a funny, self-deprecating guy with an unfortunate propensity for psychotic, often homicidal women.

At the start of the book, Gil arrives on the island ostensibly to catalog a purported 22 species of wild orchid, when in reality he’s simply running from yet another of these disastrous sexual conquests, figuring the place so remote, so rugged, so utterly unwelcoming to strangers it would deter even this latest bizzarro chick.  Shortly after he arrives, however, islanders begin to die rather gruesome deaths and he’s forced to try and solve the murders to prove his own innocence. Along the way he meets a gorgeous, wealthy widow who trips all his bad triggers, discovers an old diary full of island secrets, and finds himself inexplicably hounded by the ghost of a child some two hundred years dead. The book was a hoot to write and I was sorry to see it end.

When I finished Matinicus, I figured I was also finished with Gil. So when I began another book titled Reese’s Leap (March, 2013), set on another Maine island, I envisioned it as another one-off murder mystery—this one about a group of complicated, high-powered women partying during an all-female retreat when things go desperately wrong. Nary a man in sight. But I found I missed Gil. The new story felt flat without his energy. And given his womanizing ways, this book was actually the perfect vehicle for him. In this book, he ends up stranded on the island with the women when fog rolls in. When a stranger appears out of nowhere, insinuating himself into the fold and bent on a twisted kind of revenge, it falls to Gil to keep the women safe, despite a dawning awareness that not everyone will make it off the island alive.

Personal experience again played a part in developing the plotline for Reese’s Leap. I caught the first glimmers of the story while on my own annual, all-female retreat on a remote island off the coast of Maine. Take five women itching to raise some hell, put them in a rambling, hundred-year-old lodge with no electricity, phone service or other connection to the outside world, throw in a three-day fog, and the imagination can’t help but run a little wild.

With the publication Reese’s Leap, the Maine Island Mystery Series was born—albeit unintentionally. I’m now hard at work on book three, Ragged Island, and envision at least one more in the series.

I’ve learned a lot about series writing during my initial foray into the process. Knowing what to reveal and not reveal about what happened in the first book proved to be quite the tiptoe. On the one hand, I wanted to drop enough hints to entice the reader who hadn’t already read Matinicus to go back and do so; on the other hand, I had to be careful not to unintentionally give some important plot element away in the process. This is harder than it sounds. In my case, it meant being careful not to reveal the age or sex of the murderer in Matinicus—for reasons that will become obvious if you read the book. I also had to work hard not to inadvertently contradict myself from one book to another in regard to the specifics of my series’ protagonist—a complicated and deeply conflicted guy with a sordid past in regard to women. You’d be amazed how many times I’ve seen this happen in other books. My solution was to draw up character personality sketches—ones I keep updated and take with me for any characters that continue from book to book.

Three characters from Reese’s Leap are actually coming along for book three, joining a few of the battered who survived Matinicus. Now I get to sit back, waiting to see just who else will show up…

Find Darcy’s Books on Kindle and Barnes and Noble
Visit Darcy at her website.

An excerpt from Reese’s Leap:

It’s just after nine when I toss back another triplet of aspirin and—cap tugged low against the sun—slip on my shades, heft my pack, and make my way toward the dock behind the others.  The sight of  David and Lily—who are loathe to be parted now it’s down to it—is bittersweet indeed, tripping my thoughts toward Nora, or maybe Rachel. Who the hell knows anymore.

The chicks are going on about some picnic they’re planning for later in the day as my thoughts turn toward work and the deluge of Fall term minutia no doubt piling up in my campus mailbox. Something to throw myself into, thank God. Put the last few days behind me, chalk up all the longing and regret to the kind of  hoodoo-voodoo shit my numerous unresolved issues unleash on me from time to time. Soon as I hit the mainland, though, I plan to visit Burt and that rifle of his, Adria’s thoughts on the matter be damned—my parting salvo in the saga of Pete and Earl. I figure the guy can’t be that hard to find.

“Where the hell are Nora and Brit?” Margot asks as we make the dock. “We said nine, right?”

“Nora’s sleeping in,” Adria says, climbing into the skiff as I casually scan the tree line for any sign of Pete’s sneering countenance. “Brit never came home last night, far as I know.”

Seating herself before the motor, she braces her feet on the floor of the boat and gives the starter cord an initial tug. Nothing. Gives it a couple more pulls, checks the gas, tries again. Chokes it. Keeps all this up ’til she’s pretty well winded.

“How about I give it a go?” I offer.

“Doesn’t like to start if it’s been sitting a few days,” she says, making room for me on the seat.

I put some elbow grease into a couple stiff pulls. Nothing.

“Try choking it again,” Adria instructs, which I do, then give it another try. And again. Nada. Not so much as a spark. I pull off the engine cover.

My experience with outboards is admittedly paltry, limited as it is to the one on the Somerset Island skiff—a temperamental beast that burned through fuel faster than I go through scotch. It was a bitch to start, and almost impossible to bring to life if it rained. The first time I took it out alone—an ice run to Rock Island when I was twelve—I spent half an hour trying to restart it when it stalled in the middle of the bay. Sat there ’til a fisherman cruised by offering assistance. Turned over on the first pull.

I bring this up because, useless as I’ve proven myself to be when it comes to such

things, even I can tell when a spark plug’s missing. Leaves a hole.

“Spark plug’s gone,” I tell her. “See?”

“Gone?” she asks, peering into the motor. “How can it be gone?” She flicks a suspicious glance my way.

“Me? You can’t be serious.”

“There’s a kit with extras and a socket wrench,” she says, clearly unconvinced. “Blue plastic box with a flip lid stuck to the underside of the seat.”

Reaching down, I feel around ’til I locate the metal bracket and release clip where said plastic box would normally snap in—only it, too, is gone.

“Not anymore,” I say.

A brief inspection of the boat reveals that the oars are also missing, as is the handheld VHF radio. Adria sits back, momentarily flummoxed, stiffening as she glances to the opposite side of the float. “The kayaks,” she whispers, nodding toward the spot where the three of them were last tethered together. No sign of them now.

A trickle of unease as I glance again toward the treeline where that clever fucker is no doubt watching. Crazy and clever—not good.

“There a problem?” Duggan asks, unwrapping himself from Lily. He grows still, his gaze joining mine as he catches my mood. Together we peer toward the woods, where everything appears deceptively serene.

We should get to the house, I’m thinking. Locate the others.

Like now.

My eyes find Adria’s. “Time to dig out that cell phone, boss.”

Find Darcy’s Books on Kindle and Barnes and Noble
Visit Darcy at her website.

This Thing Called Writing

A couple of weeks ago the 3^rd book of the Alvarez Murder Mystery Series, Death Runs in the Family, hit the eWaves. I’m beyond relieved. Not just because it’s out there, but because I don’t have to rewrite it again and again.

I mean, you start a novel. You’re excited, filled with energy, hope, and love of the craft. You can’t wait to start the process, do the research, meet the characters, and create a spiffy plot, all that good stuff. If you’re a mystery writer like me, you pretty much know what the ending is going to be, but the ‘how’ of getting there! It’s elixir for the soul.

In the beginning, you’re open to all sorts of possibilities that spur you on during the countless, never-ending months. Writing a novel–at least at the start of it–is a wonderful adventure. Just you, your ideas, a computer, and buckets of strong coffee.

But at the end of this wretched, back-breaking process you want to run screaming into the night. There are eighty-four thousand words of what I suspect is pure, unadulterated drivel. This drivel is dripping with my blood and sweat–virtual, of course–but very real and bad clichés. True, that suspicion comes only in my more insecure moments. Much of the time, I believe it to be my best work. Healthy ego, don’tcha know.

Nonetheless, it’s been the same words and chapters over and over again, months on end. Reading, rereading, working, reworking, adding scenes, taking out scenes, and visiting my chiropractor when I could pry my creaking body out of the chair. Then it goes to the Editors.

Enough already. I’m sick of this book. I’m sick of finding out I’ve used the same stupid phrase or adjective multiple times in one chapter, which means I have to haul out the thesaurus to find something else that means the same thing. I’m sick of reading a sentence with the sinking feeling it needs to be clarified if anybody else besides me is going to get it. I’m sick of dashing over to a site called Popular Baby Names because I discovered, rather late in the game, too many of the characters’ names began with the letter ‘N.’

And what’s with one of the characters taking off for Ipanema like that in the middle of my story, anyway? I don’t know anything about Ipanema. This poor slob of a writer had to do all kinds of fast research on the fancy schmancy, Brazilian vacation spot. I had to study dozens of photographs, maps, articles, learn the monetary exchange, how they say hello, goodbye, etc. in Portuguese, which is a foreign language, fer cryin’ out loud! Honestly, characters have a way of getting a life of their own when you least expect it and then dictating to you what they are going to do. It sucks.

But I am currently free of Death Runs in the Family until I start the process all over again. I have this great idea for the 4^th book of the Alvarez Family Mystery Series and I can’t wait to start it!  Then it’s more of the above, because as every writer knows, writing is rewriting. It’s not so much talent as sheer stamina.

Heather Haven is the acclaimed award winning writer of The Alvarez Family Murder Mystery Series, Murder is a Family Business; A Wedding to Die For; and the newest release Death Runs in the Family.

EXCERPT from Death Runs in the Family

Chapter Seven

I Don’t Know Who’s the Bigger Idiot

Without much conversation, we jostled Nick out of the room and down the stairs. As a precaution, we used the back exit, Flint flinging boxes of DVDs every which way so fast, the clerk only managed one “hey” before we were out the door. The exit led to a narrow back alley filled with garbage, trash, and more small scurrying animals that should be calling the SPCA to complain about the conditions under which they’re forced to live.

While Flint went to bring the car to the side of the alley, I waited in the shadows next to Nick and pulled out the Glock. The irony of the situation hit me like a double charge on a credit card bill for shoes not only too tight to wear but last year’s style.

On the left, a disgusting dumpster; on the right, an even more disgusting ex-husband. And me stuck in the middle as usual—a reluctant PI if ever there was one.

Rather than inhaling the stench of fly-ridden garbage, I’d really rather be sniffing out dastardly doings of computer sabotage or thievery, in particular, long after said dastardly deeds have gone down. It’s my idea of a good job, especially when I get to zip off whenever I want and have a great lunch.

The part I like best—besides the food—is sitting at a highly polished, recently vacated mahogany desk in an air-conditioned office, sifting through the rubble of high-tech deceit and betrayal. I like gathering enough evidence to point a manicured fingernail at the culprit and shout j‘accuse! Backlit by enough briefs, memos, emails, and other telltale papers, the culprit is mine. That is a real high.

This was a real low. But I had to think about Stephen. My cousin was dead, and Nick knew something about it. Hell, maybe he even had something to do with it. And, of course, there were the cats. If Nick was in any way responsible, I might do him in myself and save whatever goons there may be the trouble.

All these things were flitting through my mind when Nick—the stupid idiot—made a lunge for my gun, muttering he could take better care of himself than I could. Sometimes an ex-marine, like an ex-husband, needs to get over himself.

One of the first lessons you learn as a PI is to not to carry a gun if you’re going to let anybody take it away from you. All the years I’ve been carrying, ten to be exact, people have taken all sorts of things from me—including my virtue—but never my gun.

So when Nick came at me, my knee went up fast, strong, and accurate. Ex dropped to the ground in a fetal position. God only knows what else was lying there with him, but I left him on the dirt, anyway. He was busy moaning while I cocked the Glock and gave a 360-degree spin, prepared to do whatever was necessary to keep the jerk safe. At least, for the moment.

Fortunately, no one showed up except a passing rat or two, excluding the one I stood over. After what felt like a lifetime, I saw Flint’s headlights, although I’m sure it didn’t take him more than three minutes to get there. I helped Nick up. He limped to the car, and Flint, bless him, raised an eyebrow over Nick’s condition but didn’t say a word. What a guy.

Death Runs In The Family

Lee Alvarez’ ex-husband, Nick — a man she divorced with joy in her heart and a gun in her hand – sprints back in her life only to disappear again. She’d love to leave it at that, but could he be responsible for the recent death of her cousin, who keeled over at the finish line of a half-marathon in front of hundreds of spectators? As PI for the family run business, Discretionary Inquiries, Lee follows the clues to Vegas, where she joins forces with Shoshone PI, Flint Tall Trees.  Together they uncover a multi-million dollar betting syndicate, a tacky lounge lizard act, and a list of past but very dead runners, plus future ones to off. At the top of the ‘future’ list is the love of her life, Gurn Hanson. Hoping to force the culprits out in the open, Gurn and Lee’s brother, Richard, vow to run San Francisco’s famous Palace to Palace footrace in only a few days. Can Lee keep the two men she loves from hitting the finish line as dead as her cousin? With more at stake than she ever dreamed possible, Lee is in a battle against time to stop the Alvarez Family’s 12K race with death.

Positive reviews for Heather’s books:

‘A fresh voice in a crowed genre. We will be hearing more from this talented newcomer.’

‘The writing was clever and I couldn’t stop laughing. This is the perfect beach book.’

‘Wonderful! Charming! Fun.’

‘This is an exceptionally fun read for those who love strong female characters, a bit of mystery, and a bit of tongue-in-cheek humor.’

Death Runs in the Family book trailer 

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