Death Will Tie Your Kangaroo Down (Bruce Kohler Mysteries Book 7)

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There's nothing in the world quite like it. Sunday, September 27, Changing Colors. Labels: Fall , felicia donovan. Another short story was nominated for an Agatha award. Liz's author website is www. Labels: Elizabeth Zelvin , ideas , the writing life. In August I blogged about my goal to read all the Anthony Award nominated works in preparation for Bouchercon this October. At that time, I had read only four of the twenty-three nominated books, and none of the short stories. My local librarian was able to jump on WorldCAT which I could have done from home if only I were that clever and tell me that these two books were available at our two largest local university libraries.


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That would be one book at each library, not one library with both books available life is never that easy. Good news, I graduated from both these universities, and rumor was I had alumni privileges to check out books. I verified this fact by phone first. Visiting your old university stomping grounds could be a pleasant trip down memory lane for some people. Not me. The first university is within city limits, which makes it the picky parking university. Back in my day, it had a free-for-all parking situation on the city street running alongside the campus and issued parking privileges on-campus only to those who paid for them.

Now the university appears to own that street, and they installed meters. If you want to know how I feel about metered parking, read my debut novel, For Better, For Murder , to get the gist. The day I visited, I had only twenties in my wallet. The helpful information guard said I could park in one zone with my flashers on for fifteen minutes, which meant I had to hustle. In the library, I approached their information desk and showed the Dewey decimal classification to the girl. When I craned my neck looking for the yellow lines, she took pity on me and led me to the elevators.

The stacks were as lonely and creepy as ever. All the lights are motion sensitive, and I was the only motion…sound…presence. I like to be alone, but not quite that alone.

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It took me a while to find the right aisle, call number, etc. But, no, it was on the bottom shelf. I grabbed the book, pleased to see it was relatively short, and took off for the elevators, my flip-flops slapping the gleaming floor. I turned a corner and almost smacked right into another woman. My heart skipped a beat. I gasped then laughed.

She apologized for scaring me. The girl at the checkout desk asked for my alumni ID card and gave me a little talk about the need for one when I failed to produce—so much for calling ahead to get their requirements—then let me check out the book for four weeks without any kind of ID whatsoever. Now I was off to my second institution of higher learning, the one I attended only at night.

It looks different in the daylight—and after fourteen years. But the parking is still free and plentiful.

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Their parents all smiled at me, undoubtedly because they recognized a woman of their own age group. I got the card. I turned right as I exited the elevator. Shoulda turned left. I found the book…eventually. By now I was re-thinking my choice of footwear.

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My bad knee ached, causing a slight limp. Plus, I needed a restroom. I decided that urge could wait until I got home. Did I mention I was now almost as far from my home as one can get without leaving the county? Or that, in fact, almost every road in the county was under construction, causing motorists delays? I wondered, too. First, I said I would do it, which means I have to do it. These authors can tell me about their cleverness at Bouchercon or show me through their work. Always have been. Wednesday, September 23, Infamous Rejections.

The town was an inspiration to me, both an attractant and a repellent in a way that only a small community can be.

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I wanted to vent about the gossip, praise the sense of community, explore the humor, mine what caused me and so many other small town refugees to end up right back where we started, or close enough. I might be dumb, but I'm not stupid. All the locations where people are murdered are fictional. All the real locations I describe in only positive terms. Almost all the characters are fictional, amalgamations of thoughts, experience, and imagination. The rare occasions I use a real person's name in the book, it's by request, and they're never the bad or dead guy.

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And so tell me why, whenever I do a signing in or around Battle Lake, I have so many people convinced that I've written about them, or their friend, or their relative? No, they'll say. But you must have heard about me because there I am, the friend of the killer, all the way through the book. No, but she's married to the town accountant and so am I. And I want to know who told you he's been cheating on me.

I've heard some version of this story at least five times. It's flattery, my friends tell me. You've written such archetypal small town characters that people actually feel they know them. But I can't quite get there because I hate that someone feels like my books expose them, no matter how unfounded that feeling is.

Giving the town a fictional name would have lessened that reaction, certainly, but I never even considered the idea. Battle Lake is a magical place, and I knew the books had to be set there.

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