Photos from the Past

Posted on March 1, 2014 by Loretta Giacoletto

Several days ago I received a letter from my cousin M who lives in New Mexico. Along with the letter came this copy of old photograph from the early 1900s, a solemn couple standing side by side and holding hands. M had a pretty good idea who they were but wanted a second opinion from me. These were not stylish people—no plumed hat or corseted waist or bouffant hairdo for the woman. As with most men during that era, the man was decked out in a suit. It fit him well. His deep-set eyes were as dark as the hair that matched his drooping mustache. The woman was proud and slender. Her most striking feature, almond-shaped eyes that I’d not only seen before in assorted relatives but had also conjured up when describing a tragic heroine in one of my sagas. Yes, indeed, this man and woman from long ago were the immigrant parents of M’s father and my mother and their three siblings.

In fact I have that same photograph, passed down from my mother who got it from her mother, my grandma. It was not a wedding photograph but one taken after they’d moved from Iron Belt, Wisconsin, to a series of coal mining towns in Southern Illinois. I also inherited two other photographs that include their children, the fortunate five who had survived infancy since at least two babies did not. In the second family photo my grandfather was a year away from dying, his dark eyes sunk deep into their sockets; his coal miner’s body ravaged by the effects of what doctors had diagnosed as tuberculosis. Grandma sat straight and still proud but she looked worn and tired. Shortly after his death, she married another miner, this one a widower with two daughters.

Of course, by the time I knew Grandma, she looked nothing like the young woman in the photographs from long ago. She was now round and sassy, her almond eyes hidden behind wire-rimmed spectacles. Again a widow, she had evolved into a fiercely independent woman before it was considered every woman’s right and obligation. She could read and write Italian but barely spoke English. Before she signed her name on business documents, one of her children, often the youngest who was college educated, made sure everything was in order.

Grandma invested smartly, in the beginning with money earned from her cows, their milk and cheese she made from the milk. Over the years she bought various properties—not only empty lots but modest houses rented out for additional income. She led an austere life and mostly off of the land, always a summer garden that produced herbs and veggies for tasty soups, stews, and side dishes to accompany polenta with chicken or rabbit or beef. I can still smell the delectable odors emanating from her kitchen. Its only source of water came from a hand pump that required priming before delivering the sudden gush of well water.

How do I best remember Grandma? As a story keeper who passed stories on to my mother who passed them on to me. Always with a soft black cap covering her sparse hair, a long print apron covering her dress of a different print, the dress almost down to her ankles, dark stockings covering sturdy legs, and over those stockings a trace of the long underwear she wore year-round. Behind her round spectacles, those almond-shaped eyes danced as she spoke to me in the Italian Piemontese dialect her children all spoke but failed to teach their children. A shame, really, but when I brought around my soon-to-be-husband, she took to D right away since he was a first generation Italian who communicated with her in the dialect his Piemontese grandparents had taught him.

My last photograph of Grandma, seven months before she died, is now part of our treasured wedding album. True to her tradition, she wore a soft black cap, print dress, sturdy stockings and long underwear but not the apron. The apron my mother convinced Grandma not to wear on my special day.

What about you? Any photos from long ago that conjure up special memories?

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In the Name of Research

Posted on February 15, 2014 by Loretta Giacoletto

It’s official. There’s no turning back. Isn’t that what non-refundable means? As in the purchase of roundtrip airline tickets at the lowest rate possible, as in a deal too good to pass up. Even if we didn’t want to go, we’d have to anyway. Okay, so maybe we could change the dates and pay extra for that privilege but we’d still have to go. So, we might as well make the best of it; try to enjoy ourselves now during the planning and later when we eventually get there. Transportation is A-ok, under control. We’ve already reserved our rental car, as usual a manual transmission because those precious automatics are held back for the corporate clients, which leaves us … well, you know, out of luck.

Yes, Hubby D and I are returning to Italy this summer. As in the past, he’ll be using his Piemontese dialect (a bastardization of French and Italian) to communicate with the Italian relatives while I’m taking notes and photos to wrap up my next novel in the Savino Sisters Mystery Series. Most of this current WIP (work-in-progress) takes place in the foothills of the Italian Alps, about forty miles north of Torino (Turin), with action centered on Piedmont villages such as Pont Canavese, Cuorgnè, and Castellamonte. And since my novels tend to focus on flawed or misguided characters caught up in crime, betrayal and passion, expect something bad, illegal, or immoral or any combination thereof to happen along the way.

My yet-to-be-named WIP will be a continuation of Italy To Die For, which means Ellen and Margo Savino will travel along the Italian Riviera from Cinque Terre to Genoa before heading north. D and I will also spend a few days on the outskirts of Genoa, visiting with relatives while soaking up the sun-drenched atmosphere and tracing the route my characters will be taking. If I close my eyes right now, I can conjure up memories of the Liguria Region, envision sloping vineyards perched above the coast, smell the vagrant flowers that grow bigger and better with less effort than elsewhere, taste the salty air blowing in from the bluer-than-blue Mediterranean, or as the Italians prefer, the Ligurian Sea.

And speaking of vineyards, I think a trip to the Piedmont Region’s Barolo vineyards might be in order. The last time D and I attempted to find Barolo on our own, we were armed with a myriad of instructions that didn’t pan out. Frustrated, we stopped for a mid-afternoon meal, killed a bottle of wine between us, and then headed back to Minichin, our pensione high in the foothills overlooking those villages I mentioned earlier. No way can we go back to Italy without spending a few days in Colleretto’s Minichin, a stone’s throw from la cappella di San Elisabetta, the chapel of St. Elizabeth that overlooks seven villages below. On a typical morning outside Minichin it feels as if we’re walking in a cloud of fog. Oh wait a minute, we are. At night the stars shine as bright as those in Montana’s Big Sky country and down below, beyond those seven villages, we can trace the lights bordering Torino’s airport runway.   Did I mention that we’ll be spending some time as house guests of the relatives who visited us in 2012? What a marvelous reverse opportunity, to experience a foreign country from the perspective of those who have lived there all their lives. I’m talking gallon jugs of homemade red wine, sautéed wild mushrooms, braised cinghiale (wild boar) and Bambi (no need to translate).

A few winding miles from our hosts’ small village is one slightly larger, Cintano, population 262, where D’s father lived as a boy and often returned as an adult in the 1920s when there were twice as many residents as now. Lack of work took families to Torino and beyond Torino to America. Those descendents fortunate enough to have access to the family homes now use Cintano as summer retreats in the refreshing alpine.

Further up on this same foothill is the even tinier village of D’s mother. Her centuries-old family home was attached to three others, typical for that region and era. Most of the structure has been declared a ruin, condemned and unsafe to enter. Except at the far end, in which one portion has been brought back to life and is now occupied.

Twenty minutes north and closer to Gran Paradiso National Park are the villages of my maternal grandmother and grandfather. Both family homes are undeniable ruins but D and I will visit them again, just as we’ve done in the past. There’s something about standing on the land of one’s ancestors, of taking in the glorious view of distant villages below, of wondering how life was when they lived there and what it took for them to leave for a better life elsewhere.

Yes, aside from the research, there’s more than one reason for going back again.

###

 

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When in Rome

Posted on January 31, 2014 by Loretta Giacoletto

I’ve been fortunate to have visited Rome a number of times and when possible, have stayed on or near Via Veneto. In lodging as elaborate as the Hotel Excelsior to a third-floor pensione where ladies of the night frequented the bar some levels below. La Dolce Vita on Via Veneto—it’s all about The Sweet Life or one’s perception of The Sweet Life. It’s also about location … location … location, with Via Veneto offering high-end shops, 5-star hotels, and pedestrians wearing the latest fashions. Add to the ambiance a variety of sidewalk cafes—oops, when in Rome, think trattoria, osteria, or ristorante. And if you’re inclined to stretch your legs after an amazing meal, it’s an easy walk to the Villa Borghese Gardens in one direction or the American Embassy in the other.

But more than anything else on Via Veneto, or for that matter in all of Rome, the one place that will forever stay in my mind would have to be The Chapel of the Bones, officially known as the Capuchin Church of the Immaculate Conception. What I saw in that eerie chapel near Barbarini Square stirred my imagination and gripped the very depths of my soul. So much so, it inspired me to write the chapel into a novel I’d been working for several years, an Italian American saga that eventually became The Family Angel.

Indeed, it’s all about perspective, my perspective as described in this short excerpt from The Family Angel and later in a short story entitled “Frankie’s Prayers.”

Dear God, any place but here. Not that PFC Frank Roselli had any choice as to where he would be fighting his first battle—in this case, Omaha Beach on June 7. Dawn had yet to break on D-Day Plus One when Frankie jumped from his LCI into the chest-high waters bordering Normandy’s coastline. The nineteen-year-old was one GI among the thousands of reinforcements assigned to follow General Omar Bradley’s 29th Division. Those poor bastards had landed the day before, the unfortunate casualties of Bradley’s First Army.

Frankie held his M1 Garand overhead as he waded in the direction of sand. The sun had yet to come over the horizon, not that it mattered. Sporadic mortar and sniper fire from the enemy’s rear position managed to illuminate the gray sky, giving Frankie a clear view of water strewn with the 29th, plus too many of those who had just landed. Dear God, bodies everywhere. He brushed past his dead comrades, nudged a combat boot. Shit, the foot was still inside. His stomach flipped and churned, producing an indigestible mix of disgust and shame.

Damn the flying shit. Keep moving, or wind up like these poor, broken bastards—he’d pray for them later. Frankie’s immediate concern was the beach, getting there in one piece. God willing, he wouldn’t take any shitfire, enemy or friendly, along the way. What the hell, survival boiled down to the luck of the draw. Move the wrong way and walk into a random shot. Bang, you’re dead.

Up ahead, water rolled into sand, exposing a graveyard of mutilated GIs. Their numbers too great to comprehend; their bloated remains scattered among the remains of landing crafts and military paraphernalia, an eerie testimony to what had transpired twenty-four hours earlier. Frankie hit the sand running. The stench of burnt flesh assaulted his nostrils. He stumbled and fell, onto what? Sweet Jesus, a baby-faced soldier, history now. Vacant eyes stared in astonishment, as if relaying the horror they’d been forced to witness. Frankie rolled to his knees and out of respect, turned his head. After heaving up yesterday’s k-rations, he made a sign of the cross, as much for himself as for the fallen heroes.

Their fleeting mortality reminded Frankie of a bizarre place he learned about in the eighth grade. He pictured Sister Agnes strolling around the classroom, rosary beads swinging from her ample waist. She spoke in an Irish brogue that distinguished her from the town’s other immigrants. This day she lowered her voice to a near whisper as she described a certain church in Rome.

“It’s called the Chapel of the Bones, boys and girls. Housed within the Church of the Immaculate Conception is a crypt dedicated to centuries of deceased Capuchin monks.” She stopped at Frankie’s desk, opened a large book of photographs, and held it up. “As you can see, their bleached bones—too numerous to count—have been assembled into the walls and floors of various room displays. Even into chandeliers. Some skeletons remain intact and wear the Order’s coffee-colored habits.” Sister directed her plump finger to the pointed hoods concealing skulls and profiles. “Outstretched skeletal hands beckon the curious visitors to indulge themselves. No need to hurry here they seem to say.”

Frankie leaned forward for a better view, but one row over Charlotte Evans gasped and uttered two words, “How disgusting.”

“No, Charlotte, ‘tis the reality of our physical existence,” Sister replied. “Now, if you please, allow me to continue. Here in the museum, among the Capuchin, time is no longer of the essence” She turned the page to more bones. “Posted on a wall in the last room is a Latin inscription, written in flawless calligraphy. The monks left us this message; one I challenge all of you to remember.” Swishing in her long black habit, she went to the blackboard and using the Palmer Method—which none of the boys could master—she wrote in chalk, transcribing the words into English:

“What you are now, we used to be; what we are now, you will become.”

Enough, Sister Agatha, PFC Roselli thought, someday yes, but not this day. He banished the prophetic verse from his brain and scrambled to his feet.

“Move it, soldier. Head for cover,” a voice called out from behind. “Don’t look at them. Don’t think about them. We’re not going to be them.”

End of Excerpt.

If you’d like to read The Family Angel in its entirety, please check out the formats available for purchase through Amazon.

This excerpt is also part of a short story entitled “Frankie’s Prayers.” If you’d like to read the complete story and sign up sign up for enews about my latest writing, please connect with me at loretta@lorettagiacoletto.com or through a private message on my Facebook.

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Cooking in Cody

Posted on January 15, 2014 by Loretta Giacoletto

December 26, 5:00 a.m. Hubby D and I left our Christmas-decorated house and headed west, our destination Cody, Wyoming, to spend the rest of our holiday with oldest son M and family. In Nebraska we even took time out for a two-hour stopover, where we visited Uncle J and his family who operate a goat farm and have built a thriving business producing bath and body goat by-products. The rest of our drive across the Great Plains and its long stretches of nothing was the type travelers can only hope for, in one word—uneventful.

Cody, at last, amidst all the hugs and more hugs with M, his wife A, and their three sons: C, A-2, and A-1, who at the tender age of 19 recently came home from a tour of duty in Afghanistan.  Thank God for his safe return. It was time to relax, to listen and talk, and to gather around the dinner table every evening.

I’ve written about the kitchen in Cody before, my obsessive/compulsive need to improve on son M’s culinary endeavors. “This time will be different,” I told M. “I’m not going to invade your space unless invited.”

He seemed relieved.

My self-imposed exile lasted all of two days. That is, until M started making ravioli, his way, while D and I sat at the counter observing his every move. I spoke not a word but after I sucked in my breath one too many times, M finally said, “Okay, you can help.”

M had already prepared a meat/spinach/cheese filling and had mixed one batch of dough by hand when D commandeered the rolling pin and rolled out a perfect rectangle of pasta dough. In no time at all, M and I had assembled fifty ravioli, actually agnolotti, which is the Northern Italy Piemonte version of ravioli that uses meat in the filling instead of soft cheese. But wait, M had some meat filling left over. He practically grabbed the container from my reach, and said, “I’ll freeze the rest.”

“Nonsense,” I said, elbowing him aside as I rescued the filling. “I’ll make a second batch of dough—my way, in the food processor.”

So much for my way, his food processor shot craps on my first attempt. Back to the old school, I mixed the dough by hand, something I hadn’t done for years but still managed to turn out a decent product with just enough elasticity.

“That’s way too much dough,” M said.

“Patience, Little Grasshopper.”

After we made another thirty ravioli/agnolotti, D stepped in and rolled out the remaining dough paper thin, after which we folded the rectangle over and over unto a flat roll about two inches deep that we had M cut into half-inch strips. He used the perfect tool—a pizza roller. Voila! Tagliatelle—wonderful flat ribbons of fresh pasta meant to be cooked in boiling salted water. After three minutes the pasta can be finished off with grated cheese and butter, with a meat or marinara sauce, or with meat and a hardy gravy.

The next day I stayed out of the kitchen while M prepared his version of tagliatelle, Cody-style served with venison, tender cuts from an elk he’d shot the week before, along with a rich, dark sauce made from the natural juices. It reminded me of the deer venison we’d eaten in Italy’s Piemonte Region. They have elk too—known there as alce (AHL chay).

Two days later, grandsons C and A-1 got up early (for them) and went hunting. They soon returned with eleven ducks they’d brought down within forty-five minutes. Ah-h, yes, it is a different life out west, nothing like the St. Louis metro area where I taught our eldest how to hunt for meat in our local supermarket.

After M helped the hunters process their wild ducks, he soaked the breasts overnight in buttermilk to counteract the gamey taste. The next day he invited me back into the kitchen, this time to instruct C on the fine art of making a proper risotto, one that would be served with morsels of sautéed duck breast, and on the side, mushrooms sautéed in butter and olive oil. Meanwhile, M wrapped the remaining ducks with strips of bacon and roasted them in the oven. But not for long, otherwise those breasts would’ve dried out.

Yum, what a treat we enjoyed that evening. And so much better the treat when eaten at a table with family we don’t see often enough and with stories told and retold until we cried from laughing so hard.

Our week-long visit ended too soon, but M and family had other commitments as did D and I. We needed to beat a snowstorm threatening to blanket the Midwest. A few days before Wyoming had experienced about a nine-inch snowfall although Cody and its surrounding area had been spared with little more than a light dusting.

January 2, 5 a.m. D and I left Cody in the solitude of pre-dawn and headed south where we stopped for breakfast in Thermopolis. Stomachs full, we continued our journey. Little did we know the highway south of the Wind River Indian Reservation would still be snow-packed and covered with black ice, a treacherous condition that continued all the way to Casper and after Casper, a good portion of the way to Cheyenne. I couldn’t help but think about our last January trip from Cody. Wind conditions: eighty to ninety miles whipping at our tires, with highways being closed ten minutes behind us as we kept moving south, whatever it took to get out of Wyoming since D doesn’t believe in backtracking.

Suffice to say, that wind-driven January return trip and this snow-packed return trip could be summed up in one word—eventful.

So, how was your holiday? ###

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My Reading List for 2013

Posted on December 31, 2013 by Loretta Giacoletto

Happy New Year everybody and welcome to 2014!

Bear with me while I take one step back to wrap up 2013—a year that kept me hopping from beginning to end—what with the print versions of Chicago’s Headmistress and Free Danner now sitting on the bookshelf along with my previously published sagas, The Family Angel and Family Deceptions. Later in the year came the digital and paperback launching of my first chick lit novel, From the Savino Sister Mystery Series: Italy To Die For. Add to that mix 24 bi-weekly blogs, four book signings and a book club discussion that proved to be way too much fun.

No wonder my favorite indulgence, i.e., reading for pleasure, got short-changed these past twelve months. In any case, I give you my reading list for 2013, which contains several repeat authors I followed up with more reads because I enjoyed their earlier offerings.

Novels

Savage Dawn by Inge Moore

The Candidate’s Daughter by Catherine Lea

Passion Potion: A New Adult Paranormal Romance by Mary Beth Daniels

Me Again by Keith Cronin

A Pony for the Fair (A Gypsy Pony) by Inge Moore

The Woman Who Lived To Be 150 by Mary McPhee

Short Fiction Collections

Shorts by Keith Cronin

Death Toll by seven authors including J. H. Bográn and Stephen Leather

Short Stories

“Cowboys” by Inge Moore

“The Way God Made You” by Inge Moore

“Happy For A While” by Inge Moore

Non-Fiction

Kitchen Confidential: Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly by Anthony Bourdain

My New Bible for Self-Publishing by Christiana Moore

Short Stories (hundreds) submitted to:

Allegory: Tri-annual on-line magazine of Sci-Fi, Fantasy, and Horror Edited by Ty Drago

In Queue to read in 2014:

Blitz Kid by Eliza Graham

Pursuing the Times by Laura Baratz-Logsted

Tony Partly Cloudy by Keith Cronin

Jacked Up! by J. A. Konrath

A Lonely Resurrection by Barry Eisler

Falling Under by Danielle Younge-Ullman

Hunting Season by J. E. Taylor

The Ghost of Calico Corners by Bonnie Turner

When I Was German by Alan Wynsel

Racing On A Wire by Inge Moore

A Textbook Case (A Lincoln Rhyme Story) by Jeffery Deaver

Of course, if I manage to read all these wonderful books and stories, how will I ever find time to meet my own goals for 2014? One at a time, or maybe I’ll have to multi-task. Or, create a clone that writes faster and better and never gets distracted. Writers more disciplined than I would say, “Turn off the TV.” What? And miss the new season for Dowton Abby?!? Mad Men, Game of Thrones, The Borgias, Boardwalk Empire, my daily dose of Imus in the Morning, The Chew? No way. Perhaps I could cut back on the vacuuming and furniture polishing. Eat out more often—hubby D would love that.

Excuses aside, over the next twelve months I will figure out some magic to accomplish most of the goals on my short list.

From the Savino Sisters Mystery Series: outline next two books, write and publish one of them.

Chicago’s Headmistress: continue the story where I left off with a sequel focusing on The Great Depression.

Loretta on Life: select and publish a mix of my favorite blogs from past years. A goal from last year I gave myself permission not to complete because I wanted to concentrate on The Savino Sisters Mystery Series. It’s all about prioritizing.

What about you? Any goals for 2014 you’d like to share?

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A Meal By Any Other Name

Posted on December 15, 2013 by Loretta Giacoletto

When I was growing up, life was simple yet somewhat structured, at least in our home and in spite of both parents employed at jobs that took them away each weekday. Still, during the school year my mother felt compelled to prepare breakfast for my older brother K and me before she and Dad left for work. Ah-h, those were the days, Monday through Friday, strolling into the kitchen to find two plates of scrambled eggs waiting for us to consume: cold to the touch, flat as a pancake, and having turned a weird color. Yes, Virginia, there really are green eggs. And no, we did not like them, not one bit. About the ham, I’m not so sure because Mother never went to such extravagance for breakfast. After a while I started lying in bed longer and longer, dreading those eggs while K dealt with them in pro-active way.

I still can hear K running down the stairs from his second-floor bedroom. From there he made a beeline for the kitchen, where I pictured him scooping up his plate of eggs and running down a second flight of stairs, this time to the basement. I’d hear the door to the coal furnace rattle open and within seconds, slam shut. Up the stairs he’d come, empty plate in hand. Green eggs problem solved for him. For me too, but only after several weeks of obediently eating what was expected of me, after which I reported K’s flagrant disrespect of his eggs to our shocked mother and she quit being so motherly.

When it came to lunch, K and I always went our separate ways. As soon as I figured out the sandwich thing, packing my own totally uninspired brown bag for school was no big deal. Baloney or braunschweiger between two slices of white bread spread with yellow mustard. Throw in a few cookies and voila! No fruit, no milk … definitely no milk … to this day, no milk.

In the evening the four of us sat down together for a full meal, otherwise known as supper. Made from scratch or from the previous weekend leftovers, it was always plentiful. “See how your father eats some of everything,” Mother would say in response to my turned-up nose. Uh-huh, that’s because she only fixed what he liked. Which didn’t always translate to what I liked, in fact, it rarely did.

What we called dinner occurred once a week, mid-day on Sunday, by far our best meal—roast beef or fried chicken. And always ending with dessert Mother had baked that morning—apple or lemon pie, pineapple upside-down cake or fruit cobbler. Make that blackberry cobbler—for sure not my favorite. But that’s another story for another blog.

In my current world of empty nesting, of assorted GI disorders and a healthier life style, Hubby D and I fix our own breakfasts but we eat together—Cheerios for him; one French scrambled egg cooked to perfection for me. Hours later I prepare one decent meal for the day, our dinner which Hubby D and I eat around noon or one o’clock. Unless we eat out at that time, which still makes it our main meal, but one we refer to as lunch since that’s how restaurants display their mid-day menu. A restaurant meal eaten in the evening we call dinner; whereas, at home it would be supper, which we rarely eat unless we had to skip our mid-day dinner or perhaps it was lunch, depending on where that particular meal would’ve been eaten.

None of this makes sense to certain offspring of our offspring, those myopic wonders who can only identify with the breakfast, lunch, and dinner that they consume at odd hours on the run or hit-and-miss. When these grand-offspring poke fun at what they consider the oddity of our dinner hour, I come back with, “What about supper? When do you eat yours?”

Supper, it’s as if they never heard the word. Or, can’t figure out where supper would fit into their super active lives.

So, what about you? What do you call your daily meals? Does it depend on when you eat? Better yet—where you eat. Or, do you simply graze. Not that there’s anything wrong with grazing.

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Whatever It Takes

Posted on December 1, 2013 by Loretta Giacoletto

Over the years I’ve watched a lot of sports: baseball, not my favorite; softball, a different version of baseball; football, too slow; hockey, too fast; basketball, Yes. And soccer, you bet! Love, love, love me some soccer. Make that fútbol to everyone outside the U.S. Ah, yes, soccer has replaced basketball as my favorite watchable sport. I’m not sure why because a last minute fluke can mean the best team doesn’t necessarily win. And those sudden death tie breakers have caused many a painful night reliving what might’ve/could’ve been.

I must confess that sometimes during those long hours of sitting on unforgiving bleachers I’d give my mind a change of pace and allow it to wander into the Land of Make Believe. Create my own team, teenage boys in this instance. Make that a select travel team, the kind every teenage soccer player aspires to play on, the kind every player’s parents aspire for their son to be Numero Uno. Parents, you gotta admire or fear them, those over-the-top super ambitious parents who will do whatever it takes to help their son achieve his fullest potential. To eventually earn an athletic scholarship to a major university.

Dream on, which I did. And wound up with a group of talented soccer players on a team called Pegasi United, coached by a power-hungry guy who learned how to work the system to his advantage. Add to that a recently widowed soccer mom—she feels obligated to take over where her late husband left off, all for the sake of their son coping with grief while trying to honor the memory of his dad. It all came together in a mystery entitled Lethal Play.

The year is 2009. The place, St. Louis, which everyone knows is in Missouri, the Show Me State. Read on. I give you the opening chapter of Lethal Play.
***
The night was too quiet, laboring under a murky sky that offered momentary glimpses of February’s moon. It cast a faint light over Missouri’s Show Me Soccer Park, deserted except for a St. Louis County Police car cruising through the stark winter landscape of the complex. The vehicle turned onto a narrow service road that ended behind the main field and parked on a large rectangle of asphalt. Two uniformed police officers exited their sedan, strolled over to a nearby SUV, and inspected the vacant interior with their flashlights.

“Rex Meredith again,” said Officer Raymer. “He must be somewhere around here, probably designing some amazing new strategy for his team.”

“Since when do soccer coaches work in the dark?” asked his sidekick, a probationary officer with barely two weeks under his belt.

“Good point, Baker. I’ll switch on the lights; you check out the field.”

While Raymer headed for the utility building, Baker walked a hundred feet or so to where he stood beside the pitch, a field of turf that enthusiasts of youth soccer considered the finest in the Midwest, perhaps the entire country. He waited another minute before the area transformed from a silhouette of geometric forms and eerie shadows to a panorama of bright lights which seemed out of sync with the unnerving calm. He took his time scanning the entire pitch, starting with the south goal and ending at the north, whereupon he did a double take, shifted his stance, and then looked again, allowing the distant scene to finally register within his brain.

“Holy Mother of God,” he managed to yell in a voice shaking with disbelief. “We have a huge problem over here.”

“Rookies. Dear god, why me.” Raymer shook his head but still came running.

He stood beside Baker and squinted, trying to adjust his eyes to the glaring lights before addressing the north goal. There, hanging from the crossbar was the figure of a man swaying with the slight breeze. He appeared to be wrapped in mesh, probably stripped from the goal post. White socks covered his feet dangling fifteen inches above the ground, and nearby an orange water cooler lay turned on its side.

“What now?” the rookie asked, his voice reduced to a quiver that made Raymer wanted to haul off and stuff some guts down his throat.

“For starters, don’t piss your pants,” Raymer said. “Instead, get your ass to the car and call for backup. While you’re there, grab a roll of yellow tape and meet me at the goal.” He hurried onto the field, yelled from over his shoulder. “And make it snappy, Baker.”

One look at Rex Meredith told Raymer the man was beyond saving. Raymer figured the rope squeezing Meredith’s neck must’ve been the same one used to anchor the net to the post. His neck was stretched like that of a dead bird, head bent to the side, his face swollen and battered, a deep gash cutting a diagonal across one eyebrow. Blood had oozed from his nostrils and both corners of his mouth. His eyes were wide open, locked into a sightless expression, of what—disbelief, desperation, regret? The stench of feces and urine sent a message to Raymer, urging him to toss his coffee and donuts, an invitation years of discipline had taught him to ignore. Still, observing the aftermath of violent death never came easy, especially with the victim someone he once knew. As did most everyone connected with youth soccer in the St. Louis metropolitan area.

“Baker, dammit where are you,” he yelled.

“Right here, sorry.”

Where, dammit. He jerked around to see Baker stopped within two feet of the goal, his head leaned back for a better view of the deceased, like some hayseed gawking at a piece of museum artwork. Raymer waited for the anticipated reaction and Baker didn’t disappoint him. The rookie doubled over, hands to his mouth and seconds away from tossing his donuts.

“Dammit, Baker, don’t even think about contaminating this area,” Raymer said. “Take your business elsewhere, and be sure to mark the site after you’ve finished.”

As usual, Baker obeyed. He stumbled over to a patch of frozen grass where he emptied his stomach with four gut-wrenching heaves, and then sectioned off the area with tape. “Sorry ‘bout that,” he said on his return.

“Quit apologizing and help me tape the crime scene. You did call for backup, didn’t you … never mind.”

Raymer already had his answer. The sound of sirens wailing into the night announced the arrival of two more police cars plus an emergency van carrying the paramedic unit. One of the paramedics checked the victim’s vital signs, confirming what everyone already knew: Rex Meredith, the illustrious coach of St. Louis’s nationally-ranked boys soccer team, was indeed dead. His body continued to hang from the crossbar while a team of crime scene investigators collected evidence, starting with one of them snapping photographs, first an overall view before moving in for medium range shots, and finally, close-ups of the deceased. The investigators tagged every scrap of paper, every bit of fiber, strand of hair, footprint impression, and scruffy dirt pattern before depositing their findings into paper bags and cardboard boxes.

Two CSI worked in respectful silence as they unwound the netting from Meredith’s body. After releasing his body from the crossbar and onto a stretcher, they wheeled it over to a woman with arms crossed over her chest and boot-laden feet stomping the frozen ground. Having already observed Rex Meredith from a suspended position, Dr. Hannah Cooper now spent a few minutes studying him from a lateral perspective.

“This must’ve been some fight,” she said through puffs of cold air, “one-sided, judging from the lack of trauma to his hands or knuckles.” She leaned in closer. “What’s this on his left pec? The tattoo of a winged horse in flight, how befitting for the coach of Pegasi United.”

She touched her fingertips to her lips, as if to say goodbye.

“I take it you knew the deceased,” said one of the first responders.

“You’re standing in my light, Detective.”

“Sorry, Doc.” He moved three feet to the left.

She slipped on a pair of surgical gloves and began her preliminary examination while the offending detective hovered with no further comment. He waited a good five minutes before opening his mouth again.

“Is it too soon to ask?”

The coroner ripped off her gloves, stuffed them in her coat pocket. “The body’s still warm and rigor mortis hasn’t started yet. Given the outdoor temperature, I’d set the time of death around ten forty-five, give or take a few minutes.”

“Life and death minutes,” he said. “Raymer got here around eleven.”

“A tough break for Rex.”

“So, how well did you know him?”

She lifted one shoulder. “He coached my
kid some years ago, but only for one season. According to Rex, our David didn’t have what it takes; he’d never meet the standards of an elite soccer team.”

“Too bad, it must’ve been a real downer.”

“Nah, we got David on another team right away. He’s still playing with the Dynamos and loving every minute. My husband never misses a game. I see as many as my work permits, which puts me in the category of a lackluster soccer mom.”

“That’s a bad thing?”

“Not in my book. Poor Sunny, she’s Rex’s wife … widow, the epitome of soccer moms—such unwavering dedication. I don’t envy the detectives who have to make that home visit. As for me, I’ve done all I can, at least for now.” Looking around, she raised her voice. “Anybody from CSI?”

A squat woman in her mid-thirties answered the call. “Right here,” Fran Abbot said. “Can we bag the hands yet?”

“Be my guest.” This time Dr. Cooper patted the deceased’s shoulder. “Dammit, Rex, I hate seeing your life end this way.”

“You think he offed himself?” Fran asked while securing a paper sack around Meredith’s right hand.

“After the beating he took and all that netting, it seems doubtful,” Dr. Cooper replied. “Still, at this stage anything is possible. I’ll know more in the autopsy room.”

Fran moved to secure the left hand. “Whoa, you said something about the deceased having a wife.”

“Yes, there’s a problem?”

“No wedding ring on his finger.”

“So maybe he didn’t wear one,” the detective said, holding up his left hand. “I don’t.”

“So maybe he took it off, leaving a telltale band of white in its place,” Fran said. “As is the case with certain husbands inclined to fool around.

End of excerpt.
Lethal Play is available through Amazon.com, Barnes and Noble, iTunes, and other eBook distributors.

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Creatures of Habit

Posted on November 15, 2013 by Loretta Giacoletto

There’s a certain morning routine I follow as soon as my feet hit the kitchen/family room floor. Turn on the TV and laptop, put on the coffee, take prescription meds, followed by those over-the-counter, followed by vitamins B-12 and D, plus fish oil. Then downstairs with the laptop where I turn on the second TV, situate my laptop onto the draft table, climb on the exercise bike, slide the draft table to straddle the exercise bike, so I can start pedaling, backwards and forwards, all while checking my email and favorite writer’s sites with one eye and one ear tuned to Imus in the Morning.

The I-Man, otherwise known as Don Imus, my go-to guy for irreverent humor, both sides of the political arena, commentary on pop culture and news worthy events, plus professional sports which always lean to the East Coast since he usually broadcasts from New York, unless it’s summertime in which case he broadcasts in New Mexico from his Imus Ranch for Kids with Cancer. The whiney, self-effacing Imus has a cast of characters I look forward to hearing from, Monday through Friday, as well as The Best of Imus over the weekends.

Let’s see, there’s Rob Bartlett with his take on The Godfather or Fat Elvis or Megan McDowell, make-believe evil sister of Fox Business analyst Dagan McDowell. Tony Powell spoofs black politicians and entertainers better than most. Mustn’t forget Warner Wolf, he does the sports. Connell McShane reports the news, and Bernard McGuirk always has something profound to say, even when it occasionally ruffles my feathers.

My favorite segments would have to be the Thursday Mensa Meeting whose current regulars include Alan Colmes, Bernard McGuirk, and Deidre Imus, the much younger, highly opinionated and by far more attractive mate to husband, I-Man. And on Wednesdays my really, really favorite: Blonde on Blonde, again with philanthropist and health activist Deidre Imus but this time going against lawyer and professed fast-food frequenter Lis Wiehl. Such fun and so enlightening: these two women who for the most part take opposing views on controversial topics of the week.

All of which leads me to this past Wednesday morning, a morning that started just like any other Wednesday morning. As soon as my feet hit the kitchen/family room floor, I switched on the TV remote. And what did I get? Nothing, you heard me, nothing. Hey, no biggie. I’d been there before, in fact several mornings before. I went through the recommended routine of press and hold the remote power button to reset the TV. Only the recommended routine didn’t work this time. Or the next four times I repeated the process. Unplugging the TV and cable box didn’t correct the problem. Nor did a phone call to the cable company whose agent checked out everything from her end before saying those words no self-respecting owner of a non-responding TV wants to hear.

“How long ago did you purchase this piece of crap?” the agent asked.

Okay, she may not have used those exact words but we both knew what she meant. As did Hubby D since he was on the extension.

After a spirited discussion between D and me over what may or may not have been happening in our lives to coincide with the purchase date of said TV, we mumbled something about eight years ago.

“In that case I’ve afraid you will need a new TV,” the cable gal said in a voice showing no remorse whatsoever.

After our conversation with the cable company ended, D who has no time for product research or comparison shopping was practically out the door and into the car. “Not so fast,” I told him. “It’s not like we have to get a new TV this very minute.”

No, we did not. Instead, we waited until late afternoon, when the sun was getting lower and lower on the horizon, signaling the approaching evening and my creature-of-habit TV programs, which are pre-recorded to enable me to fast forward through the commercials don’t always agree with D’s creature-of-habit programs, which make little sense due to his compulsive A.D.D. channel hopping. Only when the sun truly set did we panic and hurry out to make that unnecessary yet irresistible purchase, knowing full well whatever TV we’d buy could wind up as part of the Black Friday sale. Or Thanksgiving Day—I draw the line on tackling that monstrous event.

Indeed, we are creatures of habit but only to a point. This new flat-screen gem weighs about 12 pounds whereas the humongous one D and I dragged from the family room down a mere four steps to the attached garage must’ve weighed at least forty pounds. Anyone for spare parts, take the whole TV and they’re yours. No? I didn’t think so.

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Itchy Feet, Again

Posted on October 31, 2013 by Loretta Giacoletto

Did you hear what I heard? It’s the call of the Siren, luring hubby D and me to cross the Atlantic one more time, hopefully not our last. Instead of traveling by sea and risking a nasty encounter with those nasty Sirens, we’d better opt for the usual overhead route. Ouch, just the thought of 2014 airfares makes me cringe but not enough to totally deter me from thinking about our next really big vacation, as in abroad. Italy, you bet; but a few days in France and England would go a long way in making this trip truly zing with enough memories to hold us for a few more years.

Although D and I have been to the South of France and to the Mount Blanc region of the French Alps, he really needs to see the Paris I’ve been fortunate enough to experience on several occasions, business trips in which I found time to squeeze in a bit of pleasure. As in guilty pleasure … well, there was that one rather naughty review. I’m sure some things have changed since my last Parisian visit but surely not the Champs-Élysées or The Louvre or the historic Les Deux Magots café in the Saint-Germain-des-Prés area. Touristy, yes, and for that I make no apologies because there’s no way we could pass for locals. And if the Parisians are as nice as they were on my last visit, D and I will get along just fine. Memo to self: a few key phrases will go a long way—must resurrect my little French translation books.

As for England, forget the translation books. The Brits are quite forgiving to what we Americans have done to the Queen’s language. They are also most accommodating when it comes to directing dazed and confused tourists to their next destination. Mustn’t forget my interaction with The Tube, England’s super efficient subway system. After navigating through a few Tube transfers, I had other tourists asking me how to get around.

Fish and chips, by all means—I want D to sample those newspaper-wrapped goodies in the British way, with vinegar. Which I know he won’t like, if for no other reason than because I do. Also milk in our hot tea, it’s so British too.

Hopefully, D can tolerate the Victoria and Albert Museum because during my last visit I spent hours mesmerized by its then current exhibit, decades and decades of fashion—sigh, whatever happened to style. Oh, yeah, now I remember—comfort. This time with Victoria and Albert I’ll cut back to a manageable one or two hours, provided there’s an exhibit we’ll both enjoy.

For sure D will find the Tower of London fascinating, especially those Beefeaters in all their splendid regalia, talking about the good old days in merry old England. I was there on a damp October day, walked right in without the usual long line during the high season. There I stood, awed by the greenery while listening to my Beefeater guide explain how poor Anne Bolyn lost her head, and centuries later how her skeletal remains were discovered in a mass grave, along with others who had defied whatever ruler happened to be in power. As much as I enjoy history and its many lessons, I’m relieved not to be living in the era of the ultimate capital punishment: that of being hung, drawn, and quartered. I almost included torture and beheading but, unfortunately, those atrocities still occur in some parts of the world, as do other unspeakable acts against mankind.

Of course, while touring the Tower, I couldn’t miss the crown jewels, which I mistakenly thought would be jewelry, as in earrings, necklaces, broaches, finger rings, pendants, and bracelets. Only to learn these jewels of England were encased in sturdier objects such as swords, scepters, vestments, and yes, rings and crowns.

Although I love the idea of returning to places I visited years ago, I have to add new places as well. I’m thinking a side trip to Ascot where we have friends, more like extended family—in-laws to D’s uncle. Is there a term for that kind of relationship? Perhaps in France, but none that I know of in America.

Hm-m, and while we’re in England, we really should consider a tour of Masterpiece Theater’s Downton Abbey, actually Highclere Castle. Yes, a real castle located in the village of Bampton in Oxfordshire. With any luck and given my modest upbringing and current life style, I’ll probably wind up downstairs with the loyal staff. That’s all I need, the story of my life, from scullery maid to main housekeeper. Move over, Mrs. Hughes. On second thought, stay right where you are. I’m working my way upstairs to hobnob with Lord and Lady Grantham. If Shirley Maclaine can look like she belongs, I can too, that is, with the right corset, dowager clothing, pompadour, my eyes at half-mast and my nose lifted ever so slightly.

Now I really am getting pumped up about this 2014 trip and I haven’t even thought about Italy, especially what we should do there that we haven’t done before. We’ve never been south of Rome but going there would cut into our time up north, with family in those charming Piemonte villages. Plenty to time to resolve those issues but that’s what makes the planning so much fun. After all, half the fun of traveling is about the anticipation, isn’t it? ###

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Remembering Marcella Hazan

Posted on October 16, 2013 by Loretta Giacoletto

Marcella Hazan, the foremost authority on traditional Italian cuisine, recently passed away on September 29, 2013, in Longboat Key, Florida. When she came to St. Louis in February, 1997, for the Art Museum’s “Italian Celebration,” I’d never heard of her. But Daughter D who worked at the museum insisted I needed to see Marcella in action. And D usually knows best. So, I took her advice and found myself among those fortunate enough to be sitting in the filled-to-capacity auditorium, watching Marcella demonstrate the proper way to make … yikes, I can’t remember what she demonstrated! But what I do remember is the overhead mirror and strategically stationed TV screens that captured her every movement. And her lovely Italian accent and the no-nonsense manner in which she took command of the stage. And how the audience of mostly females sat mesmerized by her every word. And I did buy her cookbook, Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking.

After that day at the Art Museum, Marcella Hazan became my go-to authority on Italian cooking in the Italian way—which may take longer than necessary but always uses the appropriate ingredients, proportions, and techniques passed down from generation to generation. Which is not necessarily the way I do things in my cucina/kitchen, but that’s what I like about my practical American side, the Type-A side that’s always looking for shortcuts.

Nevertheless, prominently displayed on my cookbook shelves are three of Marcella Hazan’s highly regarded books:

Marcella’s Italian Kitchen, which I happened on one day at TJ Maxx (I think)

Marcella Cucina, which has beautiful colored photos and pages with Marcella’s hand-written notes

And, of course, The Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking I purchased that memorable day fifteen years ago.

And, unlike my usual preference for only looking at cookbooks and never following the recipes within, I do have three recipes from Marcella’s Essentials cookbook that I use at least once a year:

Pork loin braised in milk—slow and tedious but well worth the effort.

Diplomatic—a chocolate dessert with rum and coffee that Hubby D and I often use as our base for tiramisu.

Sweet potato filling for ravioli—a dish half of my family loves and the other half … yes, hates, but what do they know.

Several days ago on ABC’s, The Chew observed Columbus Day by featuring a variety of Italian dishes. In reminiscing about his first encounter with Marcella Hazan, Mario Batali said she had sent a letter in which she reprimanded him for using a sauté pan instead of a sauce pan to make risotto. Really? A sauce pan? Not in my cucina, not in my mother’s cucina. My mother taught me to make risotto in a sauté pan because that’s how her mother made hers and until recently that how I always made mine. That is, until I discovered my non-stick wok works even better and now that wok is my go-to risotto pan. Just color me hopeless when it comes to following the advice of those who know way more than I do. I am destined to forever remain a so-so home cook.

Rest in peace, Marcella, and thanks for the memories.

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