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Excerpt from The Skeleton Paints a Picture


Flakes had just started falling out of the slate gray sky as I walked to the faculty parking lot Friday afternoon, but since students were within earshot, I waited until I was inside my minivan to express my opinion of the swirling bits of frozen aggravation. The fact that only a couple of inches were expected that evening was no consolation.

It’s not that I have anything against snow. I was born and raised in New England, and while my so-called career as an adjunct English professor has involved moving all too often, I’ve never lived anywhere that didn’t require a winter emergency kit that included a fold-up snow shovel, a blanket, and a bag of cat litter for traction on icy roads. But not only was Falstone in the snowiest part of Massachusetts, with an annual average snowfall second only to nearby Ashburnham, this year was turning out to be one for the record books.

I felt as if I were driving through a tunnel as I pulled onto the street that ran past Falstone College of Art and Design—FAD to its friends. There had been five major storms in the past month, and the weather hadn’t warmed up enough for appreciable melting, so the exhausted snowplow drivers were running out of places to push the snow. That meant the piles on the side of the road and in every available median strip were getting higher and wider, and the roads were getting narrower and narrower.

As I drove, I could see brush, rocks, even shopping carts partially buried in the icy piles. My students were starting to make jokes about missing classmates who wouldn’t be found until the next thaw.

I just wish they’d been the only ones to get that idea.

Finally, I made it back to the bungalow I was borrowing from one of my parents’ friends for the semester. Snow was still falling, and it was already half an inch deep on the long driveway I’d cleared just the day before, meaning that another session with the snowblower would be due in my near future. I trudged up the sidewalk—which would also need clearing—and was cheered to see two big packages waiting for me on the front porch. Both had my parents’ house in Pennycross as the return address, but the labels were typed, so I didn’t know if they were from Mom, Phil, or my daughter, Madison. Nobody had warned me they were sending anything, which was unusual, but maybe they’d wanted to surprise me.

I grabbed the box on top and left the other on the porch while I divested myself of the coat, hat, scarf, and gloves that winter in Falstone required. I was about to go back for the second box when there was a ping on my phone. I pulled it from my pocket and saw that my best friend, Sid, was texting me.

SID: Hi, Georgia. Did the packages arrive?

GEORGIA: Good timing. They came today.

SID: Open 1 of 2 first!

I checked the box I’d lugged in. It was labeled 2 of 2. Of course. I dropped the phone on the table in the hall, opened the door just long enough to drag the package inside, and went to track down a pair of scissors. I was on my way back to the front hall when I heard my phone ping again.

SID: Aren’t you going to open the box?

GEORGIA: Give me a minute!

There was another ping, indicating that yet another text had arrived. Only, it wasn’t from my phone. It had come from inside Box Number One. I , then sent another text.

GEORGIA: I’m trying to find the scissors.

BOX: Ping.

I briefly considered shoving both packages back out onto the porch, but I knew that would only be delaying the inevitable. So I slit the tape on the top of the cardboard box and lifted up the flaps. Inside, nestled in a bundle of old T-shirts, was a pile of clean white bones and a cell phone. Plus a skull with a very big smile.

As I watched, the bones snapped together with an uncanny clatter, and within seconds, a human skeleton was standing in front of me with bony arms flung wide.

“Surprise!” Sid said.




It sounds scarier than it was. I admit that it would have been trauma-inducing for most people, but most people hadn’t grown up with an ambulatory skeleton for a best friend. Sid had come to live with—or at least to stay with—my family when I was a child, so I was blasé about Sid walking, talking, and assembling himself at will. Mailing himself to me, however, was new.

“Sid, what are you doing here?”

“I came to keep you company!”


“Don’t I get a hug?” He gave me puppy dog eyes, an impossible feat for a bare skull that he was really good at. So, of course, I hugged him.

Hugging a skeleton is kind of like hugging a coat rack—only, a coat rack doesn’t hug back.

I helped him step out of the box. “Do Mom and Phil know you’re here?” I couldn’t imagine my parents would authorize this shipment without checking with me.

“Not exactly, but… Hey, we can catch up later. I want a tour of your new digs!” He dashed away, rushing from room to room. I suppose it was pretty exciting for him. Sid only rarely left my family’s home, for obvious reasons, and his opportunities to explore other houses had been limited. So he oohed and aahed over everything as we roamed through the eat-in kitchen and the living room. The bungalow had been intended as a summer cottage, and the decorations were determinedly rustic: exposed wooden beams, braided rag rugs, and vaguely Native American patterns on the upholstery.

“Is there an attic?” he asked.

“There is, but it’s packed full of the owner’s things.”

“That’s all right. I can bunk in the living room. Or the kitchen. I don’t need a bed, right?”

“There’s a spare bedroom, but—”

“Perfect!” He trooped down the hallway, opening doors as he went. “Just one bathroom? Well, it’s not like I ever use it. I can tell this is your room. I recognize your mess. Maybe I can clean while you’re at work. And this is my room! Kind of small—”


He held up one hand. “No worries. I don’t need much space. And bonus! The curtains are nice and thick, so nobody will see me in here. I’ll just go get my things.”

“Sid, why don’t we sit down and talk first?”

“Just give me a minute to unpack.”

“Sid! Sit.”

He plopped down onto the bed, and I sat next to him.

“Now talk.”

“Okay,” he said, with the tone of voice my daughter, Madison, uses when I catch her doing something she shouldn’t have. “No, your parents don’t know I’m here. I printed out postage and put the boxes in the front hall, then left a note asking Dr. T. to finish taping up the box and leave me on the porch for the mailman to pick up.”

“And he didn’t want to know what it was you were sending me?”

“He may have thought the note was from Mrs. Dr. T.”

“Why would he have thought that?”

“Because I signed it ‘Dab.’”

“But why—No, first things first. I need to let them know you’re here. They must be worried sick.”

“I doubt it,” he said with a sniff. “They probably haven’t even noticed I’m gone.”

That didn’t sound good. I got my phone from the front hall and texted home.

GEORGIA: Sid is safe with me. I’ll explain later.

Then I went back to the bedroom that Sid had laid claim to. “So what’s going on? Have you guys been fighting?”

“You have to talk to somebody to fight with them.”

“Oh. Then they’ve been working long hours.” My parents had only recently returned from an extra-long sabbatical and had restarted their jobs at McQuaid University after the first of the year.

“No, they’re home plenty, but since they’ve already started collecting grad students, the house is always full of strangers. I think they’re feeding a dozen students breakfast and dinner, and I’m pretty sure a couple of postdocs are spending half their nights on the living room couch.”

My parents had always attracted and ministered to needy grad students, a hobby that had gotten more pronounced once I’d moved out. And of course that meant Sid was stuck up in his room in the attic, or if he got caught downstairs, he was trapped in the armoire in the living room where he could listen in but couldn’t exactly socialize.

“What about Madison? Isn’t she spending any time with you?”

“I’m sure she would, but you know how brutal sophomore year is. Between rehearsals for Drama Fest and choral ensemble, she’s barely home, and when she is, she’s got homework. And the mutt to take care of.”

I suspected it was the time Madison spent with her Akita, Byron, that bothered Sid the most. He was never going to be a dog person.

“Deborah?” I asked.

“The only time I’ve seen her is when she came up to the attic to get one of her storage boxes.”

My sister and Sid had never been as close as he and I were. “I thought you guys were getting along better.”

“It’s not that. It’s because she’s busy, too. Juggling two boyfriends is taking up a lot of her time.”

“So what you’re saying is that you’ve been lonely.” After years of mostly being confined to the attic, circumstances had finally changed enough that Sid could hang around with the rest of the family. Having to go back to isolation must have been harder than ever.

He hung his skull. “I know I should have asked first, Georgia, but I was afraid you’d say not to come. And from your e-mails and all, I thought maybe you were lonely, too.”

“Are you kidding? With texting and e-mail and Skype, it’s practically like I haven’t gone anywhere. And for the first time in years, I get to be on my own! I can set mealtimes by my schedule, go out whenever I want, stay up as late as I choose, pick what to watch on TV, and play my music extra loud. I can even use real cuss words, instead of skeleton-related euphemisms.”

As I spoke, Sid’s bones loosened, which was a sign that he was unhappy. Since he holds himself together by pure force of will, weakened will means weakened connections.

I went on. “And I have never been so miserable in my life.”

It took a second for that to sink in. “Really?” he said tentatively.

“Really. Yeah, I’m glad to have a teaching job, and it’s great that Madison didn’t have to switch high schools, and I know my parents love having her to themselves. But I hate this. I know almost nobody in town and there’s not much town anyway. I had no idea how much snow they get around here, and the weather has been so awful that I don’t dare drive home on weekends for fear of not making it back in time for Monday classes and getting fired. Of course, we’re going to have to establish some ground rules while you’re here, but I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you!”

Sid’s bones were tightly connected once again. “I’ll go get my stuff.”

It didn’t take us long to unpack Sid’s belongings because he hadn’t brought much. He didn’t wear clothes and didn’t need toiletries, so all he’d brought was his laptop and accessories, a few books, and his favorite DVDs: The Nightmare Before Christmas, the Toy Story trilogy, and The Lost Skeleton of Cadavra. All of that was packed neatly in a small rolling suitcase that I used to tote Sid around when the need arose.

“Planning a field trip?” I asked, looking at the suitcase.

“I figured it wouldn’t hurt to have it around. Just in case.” He looked at me hopefully.

“We’ll see,” was all I’d commit to.

Just as we got everything put away, my parents called back for an explanation of why Sid had gone AWOL. That got tricky because Sid was at my elbow insisting that I not put the blame on them, but they finally accepted my excuse that he was feeling restless. The fact that there were three grad students at their house during the phone call provided a good explanation of why he’d felt hemmed in.

Once that was addressed, the evening was one of the best I’d had since arriving in Falstone. We made dinner—which only I ate, of course. Then we settled in to watch TV and I caught Sid up on my not-overly-thrilling adventures teaching Expository Writing at a school dedicated to visual arts.

When the snow wound down, we went outside to shovel. This was a new experience for Sid. My parents’ house was in the middle of town, and though it had a good-sized yard, the fence wasn’t high enough to allow him to move around safely out of doors. The bungalow was much more isolated, on a large lot with no neighbors within easy view. The grounds behind the house were filled with trees and stretched out for yards. Not that I had any interest in going back there, since the snow had already been too deep for easy access when I moved in at the beginning of the semester.

Just to be extra careful in case somebody randomly decided to venture down the driveway, I had Sid swaddled in a spare parka, jeans, boots, gloves, and ski mask so he looked semi-normal.

I expected him to fuss about having to wear all that, but he’s always loved costumes. Even if he hadn’t, he was having too much fun playing in the snow to mind. Sid actually enjoyed shoveling snow and liked running the snowblower even more. His snow angel didn’t work out very well, but he loved throwing snowballs and was just as happy when I returned fire.

It was with the greatest of reluctance that I finally dragged him inside so we could thaw out. Or rather, so I could. Bare bones don’t feel the cold.

After a cup of hot chocolate to warm me up, I headed for bed, and since Sid doesn’t sleep, he settled in for an all-night session with the stack of books I’d bought since I’d been in Falstone. I didn’t know about him, but I felt happier than I had in weeks. What with being kept inside so much by the weather, the house had been starting to feel claustrophobic. Now, with Sid in residence, it felt like home.

With one thing and another, we didn’t get around to establishing any ground rules for his stay, which I had cause to regret at three thirty in the morning. That’s when I woke up with Sid’s skull hovering over me.

“Georgia, wake up! You’ve got to come right away!”

Have a Bony White Christmas!

by Leigh Perry

In honor of the Christmas holidays, Sid and I want to offer this song of what everybody really wants for Christmas: a sleuthing skeleton of your very own!

Though I can’t send everybody a Sid, I can help  with your Christmas shopping. If you’re giving a copy of any of the Family Skeleton mysteries, I’ll be happy to supply a signed bookplate for you. All you have to do send an email with the following info:

  • Proof that you bought the book or books, like a photo of it or of your receipt. (Just be sure to block out any credit card numbers and such.)
  • If you want the book personalized, the name of the person you’re giving the book to. (That can be you–I don’t judge.)
  • Whether or not it’s a Christmas gift. I’ll have special Christmas bookplates, but if you celebrate another holiday or it’s for a birthday or just because, I’ll use something different.

Then send it to leighperry at mindspring dot com

I’ll spring for postage and get it into the US mail ASAP! (If you’ve got a international address, I may have to ask for help with postage. We’ll work it out as that arises.)

Wishing you all the happiest of holiday seasons! And just in case you want to sing along with the video, here are the lyrics:

“I Want A Sleuthing Skeleton For Christmas”
by Leigh Perry

I want a sleuthing skeleton for Christmas
Only a bony guy like Sid will do
Don’t want perfume
No fancy pottery
I want a skeleton to help me solve a mystery

I want a sleuthing skeleton for Christmas
I don’t think Santa Claus will mind, do you?
He won’t have to use
A dirty chimney flue
Just walk Sid through the front door
Then we’ll go and hunt for clues

I can see me now when there’s a murder
Creeping up the stairs
To discuss the alibis
And the whos, the wheres, the whys
Solving crime within our attic lair

I want a sleuthing skeleton for Christmas
Only a bony guy like Sid will do
No cop or spy
Or private detective
I’d rather work with an osteo perspective
And Sid the Skeleton, he likes me too!

Rocking Guitar Solo

Some say a skelly should scare me off but hey
I see Sid a-smiling each and every single day

Rocking Guitar Solo

He’ll live inside my house
I’ll buy him an armoire
We’ll solve the crime
Joke all the time

It’s cozy—it’s not noir
I can see me now when there’s a murder
Creeping up the stairs
To discuss the alibis
And the whos, the wheres, the whys
Solving crime within our attic lair

I want a sleuthing skeleton for Christmas
Only a bony guy like Sid will do
No cop or spy
Or private detective
I’d rather work with a osteo perspective
And Sid the Skeleton, he likes me too!


I’ve you’re a fan of my books, you might like Leigh Perry’s work. That’s the other name I publish under. As Leigh, I’ve published two books in the Family Skeleton series, with the third one coming out October 6.

If you want an inexpensive introduction to the Family Skeleton books, now is a great time. The ebook of A Skeleton in the Family, the first in the series, is currently on sale for $1.99. I’m not sure how long the sale will last, but the sale is for all the major platforms: Kindle, Nook, Kobo, iBooks, and Google Play.


Excerpts from Crooked as a Dog’s Hind Leg


Gift of the Murderer

I was glad I had saved Liz’s present for last. Maybe it would help make up for Mrs. Hamilton’s earlier abuse. “I believe this is for you,” I said, handing her the glittery gift bag.

“For me?” she said, looking pleased. “Who did this come from?”

“A good elf never tells,” I said solemnly. “Union rules.”

She smiled and opened the bag. I could see my cousin Clifford watching from where he was playing Christmas carols on his guitar. The present was from him, but he was too shy to want Liz to know that. Liz reached into the bag and pulled out a long knife, the blade smeared with something dark.

“What on earth?” she asked.

“I don’t know.” I looked over at Clifford, but he seemed as confused as I was. “I think there’s been some kind of a mistake,” I said, but was interrupted by a shriek from a few feet away.

Mrs. Hamilton had keeled over in her wheelchair, and one of the other residents pointed at her and shrieked again.

Liz dropped the knife back into the bag and thrust it toward me so she could run to Mrs. Hamilton. I was only a few steps behind her, though I didn’t know that there was anything I would be able to do.

Liz put her hand on Mrs. Hamilton’s back as if to straighten her up and then jerked her hand away. I was the only one close enough to see that her hand was covered in blood. A hole through the canvas back of the wheelchair matched the old woman’s bloody wound.

I think Liz and I realized at the same instant that the smears on that knife had to be blood, which meant that I was carrying the weapon that had been used on Mrs. Hamilton.


Marley’s Ghost

The Walters family of Walters Mill might be Scrooges for most of the year, but when it came to the Christmas party, they really did it up right: fancy decorations, an open bar, plenty of tasty refreshments, and a disk jockey to play dance music. Even though I was there with my cousin Thaddeous instead of my husband Richard, I would have had myself a good old time if I hadn’t been so concerned with trying to figure out who murdered Fannie Topper.

Instead of having fun, I was devoting my attention to the three men that could have killed her. I didn’t really expect any of them to confess, of course. The idea was to try to figure out a motive for the killing.

First I chatted with Joe Bowley over plates of ham and roast beef. He looked like a man who enjoyed his food, but didn’t mind talking while he ate. Of course I couldn’t just casually bring up the subject of a murder that happened twenty–five years ago, so I got him to discuss barbeque. I thought that it would eventually lead to Fannie Topper’s barbeque place, but no such luck. I don’t know if he avoided talking about Fannie on purpose or not, but he went on and on about Buck Overton’s in Mt. Airy, which he hadn’t even been to since before Fannie was killed.

Next I tried dancing with Bobby Plummer, and I had to admit that he was a real good dancer. He was light on his feet and smiled gallantly when I stepped on his toes. He didn’t hold me so tight the way some men try to do, which made me wonder if the rumors about him being gay were true. Maybe he was just being polite. Bobby was in much better shape than Joe, so with him, I asked about exercise. Specifically, playing baseball. I thought sure that he’d mention the championship the Walters Mill team had won all those years ago, the party afterwards, and the murder after that. Nope. He talked about NordicTrack.

Finally I sat on the edge of the hall with Pete Fredericks. Getting him to talk about death was no problem, but it wasn’t what I had in mind. It seemed that Pete was going to be leaving the mill soon to work with one of Byerly’s morticians. I learned lots about what happened to people after death, but nothing about how one particular woman came to die.

When the party ended, I didn’t know a bit more than I had before I got there. And it was only two days before Christmas.

If I had had the sense God gave a milk cow, I told myself, I would have just bought Aunt Edna a sweater or a nightgown when I drew her name that Christmas. But no, I had to get it into my head that I was going to give her something she really wanted. That meant solving a twenty–five–year–old murder and laying Marley’s ghost to rest.


The Death of Erik the Redneck

I’d known Erik Husey ever since we were in grammar school, but when I looked at the smoking mess that had been Erik and his dog, Lucky, all I could think of was that I never thought he’d be that dumb. To go out in a rowboat and set yourself on fire with a cigarette when you’re so drunk that you don’t even think to jump into the water, is just out–and–out stupid.


An Unmentionable Crime

If Sue had been anywhere else, talking to anybody else, she’d have said, “Now don’t get your panties in a bunch,” but she knew Ida would fire her on the spot if she dared say such a thing to Annabelle Lamar while working at Petticoat Junction. Especially when it was her salmon pink panties that Miz Lamar was mad about.


Bible Belt

It took Wynette a while to find the Ten Commandments in the Bible Reverend Sweeney had left for her to read while she was in the hospital. She thought they’d be marked, but they were just stuck in with the other verses. Finally she found them in the book of Exodus. There were commandments about stealing and killing and coveting, but nothing against hitting your wife.


Old Dog Days

“When did you last see him?” Andy asked Payson Smith, but instead of answering, Payson glared at his wife Doreen.

“Around five–thirty, when I got back from Hardee’s with dinner,” Doreen said. “I cook most nights, but it was so hot that day that I hated to get the kitchen heated up.”

Andy nodded understandingly, which he’d done for so many years that it looked pretty convincing. “Five–thirty yesterday evening.”

Then Brian piped up with, “It couldn’t have been yesterday. We had Kentucky Fried Chicken yesterday, and pizza the night before that. It must have been Wednesday.” The boy smirked, pleased with himself for proving his stepmother wrong, not to mention the dig he’d gotten in about her cooking.

“Jesus Christ, Doreen!” Payson exploded. “Are you saying my dog’s been missing for three solid days and you didn’t even notice?”

“You know I never go out back,” she whined, “especially not as hot as it’s been. Maybe if we got one of those above-ground pools…” Then, probably realizing that it wasn’t a good time to bring that up, she said, “Besides, it’s Brian’s job to take Wolf his food and water. He’s the one who should have figured out he was gone.”

Payson turned his glare onto his son, and it was Doreen’s turn to smirk.

“Well?” Payson prompted.

“You know I was over at Earl’s every day,” he said, whining just like his stepmother. “She knew that.”

“Since when do you tell me where you’re going to be?” Doreen shot back.

Andy could tell this was an old argument, so he spoke over them. “Then the last time either of you saw Wolf was Wednesday night, and since Payson was gone until late Friday night, nobody noticed he was gone until this morning. Is that right?”

Doreen and Brian nodded while Payson tried to decide which one deserved to be glared at more.

Andy wouldn’t have minded glaring a little himself, but his target wasn’t handy. Deputy Mark Pope was probably still at the police station, sitting at a desk he didn’t deserve.

If Andy’s wife had been there, she’d have told him it was his own fault.


Lying-in-the-Road Death

Dan Jackson was as dead a man as I’ve ever seen, and as long as I’d been Byerly’s police chief, that was saying something. As far as I could tell, a heavy set of tires had rolled right over his head, and even though I’d known Dan my whole life, if it hadn’t been for the ID in the wallet in his hip pocket, I’d never have known it was him. I decided I’d lost my taste for watermelon for a while.

“You want me to check his other pockets?” my deputy, Belva Tucker, said, but I could tell she wasn’t thrilled by the idea.

“Don’t bother. Dr. Connelly can take care of it when he gets here.”

Belva nodded, relieved.

If I’d been a spiteful woman, I’d have made her do it because of the way she’d held back while I retrieved Dan’s wallet, which was one of the most disgusting things I’ve ever had to do. But since Belva hadn’t seen as many bodies as I had, I was willing to cut her a little slack.

“I better talk to Cole.” Belva turned to go, too, but I said, “You stay here and keep the critters away from the body.” That wasn’t spite–it was payback.

Crooked as a Dog’s Hind Leg

kelner-crookeddogsleg-1Back in 1993, I started publishing my Laura Fleming mysteries about a young woman who left home to to go to college, married a Yankee, and moved up North. On her vacations, she came back to Byerly, North Carolina to solve mysteries. (A lot of this was true about me, too, except I lived in Charlotte, NC and I never got into solving mysteries.) The series ran for eight books, all of which are still available as ebooks and Audible downloads. But those eight books don’t tell you everything that happened in Byerly.

As I was writing the series, and for a few years after, I’d go back to Byerly for short stories. There were seven all together, and they were published in magazines and anthologies that are long since out of print. A friend — and she knows who I’m talking about — kept pushing me to produce an electronic collection, but I was hesitant. I’d never done a project quite like this and, of course, I was worried that nobody would want to read the stories except the one friend. But she’s persistent, and after republishing the eight Laura Fleming novels, I decided to take a shot at collecting those Byerly stories.

Getting ready for publication wasn’t as easy as I’d expected. I had the original story files, but it took help from the family tech specialist — my husband Steve — to get them opened because the programs in which they were written are obsolete. After that, I had to compare them with the published versions, since the galleys back then were on actual paper, and re-make all the corrections the anthology and magazine editors made. Then I had to proofread them, along with help from the persistent friend and Femmes Charlaine and Dana. But that was all details. The real tough part was reading them again.

Folks, I was scared to death of rereading stories that were written so long ago. What if I hated them? What if I was embarrassed by them? What if I was just bored? But it turned out not to be so terrible. Okay, there are places I wish either I or previous editors had been more vicious with red pencils, and sections I’d never write like that today. I even found some out-and-out errors that I could now fix. But overall, I’m happy with the result.

“Gift of the Murderer” was my first published short story. My editor of the time, John Scognamiglio of Kensington, called one day and said, “You write short stories, don’t you?” “Yes,” I lied. Honestly, it wasn’t easy to make myself write short instead of novel-length, but I guess he liked it, because he asked for another story for an anthology the next year. “Marley’s Ghost” is an homage to Dickens, and some of the issues raised in it led me to write the novel Mad as the Dickensyears later. Those two stories are the only ones in the collection to actually include Laura Fleming and her Shakespeare-quoting husband Richard.

“The Death of Erik the Redneck” was an Agatha nominee, and features Byerly’s Chief of Police Junior Norton investigating a kind of Viking funeral. “An Unmentionable Crime” is about Sue, one of Laura’s cousins, and was inspired by admiration for women who really understand how to fit customers with bras. “Bible Belt” isn’t actually in Byerly, but is set in the neighboring town of Rocky Shoals, and characters from it show up in Byerly later on. It was published in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, and through oddities of timing and the mail service, I found out about the sale when I met editor Janet Hutchings at the Malice Domestic banquet. That story was nominated for the  Anthony and the Macavity awards.

“Old Dog Days” has Junior Norton’s father. It was originally written for a book that never happened, which just goes to show that writers never throw anything away. With “Lying-in-the-Road Death,” it was back to Junior again. I had that title floating around in my head for years before I finally wrote the story to go with it.
After all was said and done, I rather enjoyed going back to Byerly, and Crooked as a Dog’s Hind Leg will be published on September 8, 2015. I hope people will want to come back to Byerly, and maybe some newcomers will want to visit, too.


The Skeleton Takes a Bow

by Leigh Perry

Chapter One

I should have known better than to let Madison talk me into letting Sid appear in Hamlet. Of course, he was made to play the part she had in mind for him. Like Yorick, Sid was a fellow of infinite jest and most excellent fancy, had borne me on his back a thousand times, and his flashes of merriment were indeed wont to set the table on a roar. More to the point, Sid and Yorick were both dead. But while Yorick is usually depicted as an inanimate skull, the Thackery family skeleton is a full set of bones and he is quite thoroughly animated.

It started on a Friday in late March, a few days after the Pennycross High School Drama Club held auditions for its production of Hamlet. My teenaged daughter Madison had spent most of the afternoon conferring with Sid in his attic room, and when they finally emerged, they cleaned up the kitchen, washed and folded two loads of laundry, and gath- ered the garbage and recycling to take out to the street—all without being nagged. So of course I’d known they were up to something.

Over our spaghetti dinner Madison said, “They announced the cast for the play today. Becca Regan is going to direct, and she’s great.”

“Excellent!” Madison had joined the drama club as soon as she started attending classes at PHS, but it had been too late for her to be in the fall show. This time she was ready. “What part did you get?”



“He’s one of Hamlet’s friends. Claudius brings him and Rosencrantz in to try to cheer up Hamlet and then uses them to—”

“Sweetie, I know who Guildenstern is. English degree, remember? It’s just that I thought you were going for Ger- trude or Ophelia.”

“I was, but so were all the other girls in the club. There are only two good female roles in the play, after all. Guil- denstern will be interesting.”

“Are you going to be the mature one this time? I want to know before I start complaining about club politics, playing favorites, and so on.”

“Tonight I will be playing the role of maturity incarnate.”

“Okay, then. They gave you such a small part because you’re a freshman, right? And a new kid?” Even though we’d moved so often that Madison was remarkably adept at fitting herself into a school’s society, some schools were more insu- lar than others.

“Maybe, but to be fair, Becca doesn’t know me well enough to know if she can rely on me to carry a big part. This is her first time directing a show, and you can’t blame her for wanting to go with a known quantity.”

“Yes, I can. Especially if you gave a better audition.”

“Oh, I nailed that audition!” Then she remembered that she was being mature. “Of course, we both know that plenty of people audition and get a role, then don’t even bother to show up for rehearsals.”

“Please. She could have checked your resume and real- ized that you were dependable enough for more than a small part.”

“There are no small parts, only small actors.”

“Which you are not, so you are going to rock that part!” “Agreed. Besides, there are a lot of even smaller parts. And Tristan, the guy playing Rosencrantz, is really cool and we get to hang out together at rehearsal. He’s a really good actor and would have been a great Hamlet, but the guy who got it is good, too, and he really looks the part. He’s got that whole dark-haired emo thing going on—Tristan is blond.”

I resisted asking the questions that sprang immediately to mind: Is Tristan cute? Is he cool for a boyfriend or just as a friend? Does he have a girlfriend? When can I meet him? In other words, all the questions that were guaranteed to make Madison’s hackles rise. If she was going to be mature, I should take a stab at it, too. “So are you going to be a female version of Guildenstern, or dress in male drag?”

“Drag!” she said happily. “We talked about setting the show during the twenties or something, but decided to go full-out Elizabethan. Tights, swords, doublets. Jo Sinta is doing costumes again, and she’s so excited!”

“Sounds great. I look forward to it. Just let me know the rehearsal schedule so I can put it in my book.” As an adjunct English professor, my classes tend to be at those odd times that full-time profs don’t want, and I also have to keep office hours. Keeping up with that while monitoring the activities of a busy teenager was a constant challenge.

“There is one thing I wanted to ask about, schedulewise.” Madison looked at Sid, and I knew the moment had come for them to ask whatever it was they’d cooked up earlier. “You know high schools have to work with tight budgets.”

Sid spoke for the first time since we’d sat down to dinner. He doesn’t eat, of course, but he likes keeping us company during our meals. He also likes sneaking tidbits to Madison’s Akita, Byron, under the table, not because he likes the dog but because he was hoping to convince him that there were much better treats available than Sid’s own bare bones. He said, “I think it’s shameful that the arts are so poorly supported in public schools. I’d like to do more to help.”

There was a thump under the table that I interpreted as Madison kicking Sid in the shinbone. Had she known him as long as I had, she’d have known that, unlike her, he never could stick to a script. But I’d known him most of my life, while she’d only been formally introduced to him a few months before.

Madison said, “Becca said we’re going to spend most of our budget on the costumes. That’s the way they did it back in Shakespeare’s time.”

“I know. English professor, remember? Even adjunct faculty members are familiar with the way Shakespeare’s work was originally produced.”

“Right. So we’ll have some props and scenery, but they’ll be minimal, whatever we can scrounge up. And today Becca 1S pulled out this really awful papier-mâché skull and said we’d be using it for the grave-digging scene.”

Sid assumed a dramatic pose. “‘Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy—’ ”

There was another thump under the table.

“Anyway,” Madison said emphatically, “I thought that the scene would play so much better with a more convincing skull.”

“Like Sid’s?” I asked.

“What a great idea, Georgia!” Sid said, and I think he was trying for enthused surprise. He’d have never made it through an audition if that was the best he could do.

“Nice try,” I said, “but we all know it wasn’t my idea—it was yours and Madison’s.”

“Was doing the laundry too much of a giveaway?” she asked.

“Just a bit.” Not that I was complaining—it meant fewer shirts for me to fold. I took a healthy bite of spaghetti so I could chew on it and the idea simultaneously. “Do you have any idea how you would work this out?”

“It’ll be easy,” Madison said. “I’ll take Sid to school with me and keep him in my locker until rehearsal.”

“You’re going to take all of Sid?”

“No, just the skull.”

“I’m fine with that,” Sid added.

He really was eager. Usually he hated to be separated from the rest of his bones because it made him feel so help- less. The essential part of Sid—I never know if I should call it his soul, his consciousness, his ghost, or his memory chip—travels with the skull, which means that when the skull is elsewhere, the rest of his bones are just that, a pile of bones. He could move the rest of his skeleton from a few feet away, but not from as far away as the high school. On the plus side, I wouldn’t have to worry about a skull-less skeleton wandering around the house getting into trouble.

“Won’t you get bored cooped up in a locker all day?” I asked.

“I’ll put him on the shelf in front of the vents,” Madison said, “so he’ll be able to watch people.”

Since Sid was an enthusiastic eavesdropper and peeper, I could see how that would appeal to him.

She went on. “I’ll take him with me to rehearsals, then bring him home every night. All we need is some sort of padded bag to carry him in, and Aunt Deborah has an old bowling bag she’s not using anymore that would be perfect.”

“You told Deborah your plan?”

“No, no. I just noticed the bag the last time I was over at her place.”

That was a relief. My older sister had grudgingly accepted that Sid was a part of the family, but I was pretty sure what her reaction to this plan would be. My initial feeling was the same, but after all the cleaning they’d done, I owed Sid and Madison a chance to convince me.

So I listened to the rest of their pitch as I finished my plate of pasta. Madison’s argument that it would add a vital element to the play’s success didn’t sway me much. Yorick’s skull appears onstage for exactly one scene—as long as the skull they used onstage was approximately the right shape and color, it would be fine. It was Sid’s plea that really got me. Once he abandoned his “support the arts” platform, I could see how much he really wanted the chance to leave the house and spend more time with Madison.

Sid had moved in with us when I was six, but for obvious reasons, he only rarely left the house. As long as I’d been living at home, he’d had me for company, but once I moved out, he’d spent most of his time alone in the attic. Since I’d come back to Pennycross for a job at McQuaid University, and was house-sitting for my parents while they were on sabbatical, his life had been far more interesting. He had me and Madison to hang with, Byron the dog to fuss about, and when he discovered the Internet, a whole new world to play in.

But still, he hadn’t had an opportunity to actually leave the house for months, and this sounded like it might be a safe way to allow him a little more freedom. After obtaining pinkie swears from them both—Sid’s that he wouldn’t play any tricks and Madison’s that she’d be exceedingly careful with him—I agreed.

But late that night, after I went to bed, I started counting up the ways it could go wrong. The problem was, I couldn’t go back on my word to my daughter and my best friend, no matter how much I wished I’d never let them talk me into it.


Chapter Two

My misgivings were proven all too correct just three weeks later. Madison had just started down the street to take Byron for a walk when I got home from work, even though it was after five. Knowing that she usually takes him out first thing after she gets back from school, I deduced that she’d had a long day. So while she tended to his needs, I went inside to tend to hers. In other words, I thawed out some of the chili we’d made and frozen the weekend before and baked a can of crescent rolls. Since it was Thursday, we’d just about run out of fresh supplies from the previous weekend’s shopping trip, but there was enough produce left to toss together a salad.

I had everything ready by the time Byron dragged Madison back in, and while she washed up, I made sure all the curtains were closed tightly for privacy before I went to the bottom of the stairs and yelled, “Sid! Dinnertime!”

Sid doesn’t eat, of course, or even drink, but he usually likes sitting with us during meals. But this time, there was no answering clatter of bony feet.

“Sid? Are you coming down?”

Madison came out of the bathroom with an expression of guilt it didn’t take a mother to interpret.

“What?” I asked.

“I left him at school.”

“You did what?”

“I left Sid at school!”

“Madison! How could you—?”

“It’s not my fault. I had to take that makeup Spanish test after school, and Senora Harper made me wait until after she finished tutoring some kids, and then the test took for- ever so I barely made it to choral ensemble. Then Samantha’s wheelchair was acting wonky so she needed help pushing it outside, and I couldn’t just leave her outside alone with her chair messing up, especially since her mother was late. Then when she finally showed up, they offered me a ride home, and it was so late and I was so tired—”

I held up my hand to stop the flood of excuses and asked, “Where is Sid?”

“Well, I didn’t remember the test until after I’d gone to rehearsal, and we weren’t working on any of my scenes today anyway. Only Becca wanted to keep Sid because she wanted to work on the graveyard scene, which I said was fine, so she said I could come pick him up later. But I had that Spanish test and—”

“Madison! Where is he?”

“He must still be backstage in the auditorium.”

“Fine. We’re going to go get him.” I grabbed my purse and car keys, and she followed me out to our somewhat battered green minivan.

Rush hour was in full swing, something I usually manage to avoid by virtue of working in university settings that don’t keep standard business hours, and even in a town as small as Pennycross, the delays were annoying. Madison, realizing that I hadn’t bought her explanations for why it wasn’t her fault, was sunk in silence and I was too mad to say anything to make her feel better.

Had I been totally honest with her, I might have admitted that I was blaming myself nearly as much as I was her. I should have noticed sooner that Sid wasn’t clattering around in the attic. When a person has no skin to mask the sound, and no reason to keep himself hidden, it can get pretty noisy. I’d figured he was on the computer, catching up with his myriad Facebook friends and Twitter followers.

Though the parking lot was nearly deserted when we got to Pennycross High, the two cars parked near the front door gave me hope that somebody would be available to let us in. No such luck. I pounded on the door repeatedly and Madison trotted all the way around the building to see if she could find a door that had been left unlocked, but there was no sound from inside the building. After fifteen minutes of raising as much of a ruckus as we dared, we admitted defeat and got back into the car.

We were halfway back home when Madison said, “I’m sorry, Mom. It was my fault.”

“No, it was mine. I should never have let you talk me into letting Sid be in the play.”

“But he’s been having so much fun!”

“And now he’s stuck at the school all night. Alone.” “At least it’s not Friday—one night is a lot better than the whole weekend.”

She wasn’t even convincing herself, and I was not appeased.

I warmed up the chili and rolls in the microwave when we got back to the house, but neither of us had much appe- tite. Afterward, Madison dove into her homework while I graded student papers. I’m afraid my students paid the price for my bad mood—I wasn’t as patient as I usually was with grammar mistakes and confusion over syntax.

The night seemed long and empty without Sid, and once Madison went to bed, I snuck up to his attic room. With his skull gone, inhabited by whatever it was that kept Sid mov- ing and talking, the rest of his bones were abandoned on the couch. Normal skeletons, meaning the kinds of specimens I see fairly often in the halls of academe, are held together with wires and bolts. Sid holds himself together, so the pieces he’d left had no reason to stick together. It was vaguely creepy seeing him like that, but I suppose it would have been creepier still if his body had been wandering around blindly, searching for his skull.

Byron was standing at attention outside the attic door when I got back downstairs, so I carefully closed it behind me. It was bad enough that we’d left Sid at school. I didn’t want to think about what his reaction would be if we let the dog gnaw on his bones while he was gone.


Chapter Three

Usually Madison rode her bicycle to and from school, but the next day I drove her and her bike, hoping she’d be able to get to the auditorium and grab Sid so I could take him home right away. Unfortunately the cheerleaders picked that morning to rehearse for a pep rally, so we had to postpone our apologies until later.

I blew off my office hours that afternoon and was back at PHS when the bell rang. Madison ran out to where I was waiting, gave me the battered black and purple bowling bag Sid been riding to and from school in, and jumped on her bicycle to take care of an urgent errand.

“Sid, I am so sorry,” I said as soon as I started driving. I’d unzipped the bag so he could hear me better, knowing that if anybody saw me talking, they’d assume I was on a cell phone.

“Georgia, we need to talk,” Sid said, his voice a little muffled from still being in the bag.

“I know, I know, this was unforgivable. We went to the school as soon as we realized you’d been left behind yesterday, but the doors were locked and nobody would let us in. Madison beat herself up over it all night long, and she really wants to make it up to you, so she’s at Wray’s Comics right now looking for something special to get you as an apology present.”

“Forget the manga,” he said. “This is important.”

“Of course it is, but you know we’d never have left you there all night on purpose. It’s just that Madison had to make up that Spanish test she missed when she was out sick last week, and it took longer than she expected, and she had choral ensemble practice after that, then went to help Samantha, and she just forgot to come back by the auditorium to get you.”

“It’s okay, but—”

“It’s not okay!” By then I’d arrived at the house. “Hang on until we get inside.” Normally I’d have zipped up the bag, even for the short walk from the driveway into the house, but under the circumstances, I just couldn’t do it.

As soon as I was in the front hall with the door firmly shut, I pulled Sid out of the bag to continue apologizing face-to-face. Or at least face-to-skull.

“Okay,” he said, “it’s not okay and I will be happy to let you and Madison grovel for the next month. Maybe two. But right now I have to tell you something.”

“Okay, what is it?”

“I witnessed a murder.”

“Excuse me?”

“Last night, somebody killed a man in the high school


For the rest of the Family Skeleton’s latest adventure, read The Skeleton Takes a Bow from Berkley Prime Crime, available as a paperback, ebook, and Audible download.


Readercon and Gen Con

I’ll be attending a couple of conventions this summer, and recently received my schedules for both. So if you’re coming to science fiction convention Readercon in Burlingon, MA in mid-July or gaming convention Gen Con in Indianapolis, IN in mid-August, you can meet me at one of following events.

As an special added bonus, I’ve included my husband Steve Kelner’s Gen Con events, too. (Unfortunately he’s not on any panels at Readercon this year. Not sure why–his previous events there went really well.)


Burlington, MA
July 10 to 13, 2014

Friday, July 11 @ 7 PM
Panel: Emotion, Archives, Interactive Fiction, and Linked Data
Leah Bobet (leader), Toni L.P. “Leigh Perry” Kelner, Sarah Smith, Walt Williams.
In a 2013 blog post, archivist Mx A. Matienzo drew a line between the “linked data” of interactive fiction (IF) and the connections within an archive of materials and works. Matienzo suggested creating a hybrid of the two that would bolster the emotional impact of fiction with links to relevant factual information—or, from the other side, that would bolster the intellectual weight of nonfiction with more nebulous but equally important information about feelings, thoughts, and experiences.How else can archivists, authors, and others collaborate on hybrid storytelling that brings these disparate components together?

Friday, July 11 @ 8 PM

Friday, July 11 @ 10:30 PM
Meet the Pros(e)
Each writer at the party has selected a short, pithy quotation from his or her own work and is armed with a sheet of 30 printed labels, the quote replicated on each. As attendees mingle and meet each pro, they obtain one of his or her labels, collecting them on the wax paper provided. Atheists, agnostics, and the lazy can leave them in the order they acquire them, resulting in one of at least nine billion Random Prose Poems. Those who believe in the reversal of entropy can rearrange them to make a Statement. Wearing labels as apparel is also popular. The total number of possibilities (linguistic and sartorial) is thought to exceed the number of theobromine molecules in a large Trader Joe’s dark chocolate bar multiplied by the number of picoseconds cumulatively spent by the Readercon committee on this convention since its inception.

Saturday, July 12 @ 12:30 PM
I’ll be reading from The Skeleton Takes a Bow by my alter ego Leigh Perry. (I’ll also have buttons with a keen skeletal design by my daughter.)


Gen Con Writer’s Symposium
Indianapolis, IN
August 14 to 17, 2014

Thursday, Aug. 14 @ 11 AM
Writer’s Craft Panel: Mysteries
Elizabeth Vaughn (Moderator), Toni L.P. Kelner, William Alexander, Aaron Rosenberg, Carrie Harris
Look at ways to add mysteries to your stories in a way that hooks the reader without confusing them or giving too much away!

Thursday, Aug. 14 @ 5 PM
Business of Writing Panel: Creating Anthologies
John Helfers (moderator), Kerrie Hughes, Toni L.P. Kelner, Jaym Gates, Gabrielle Harbowy
How do editors create an anthology? How do they figure out who contributes to one? How are they marketed? Our panel walks you through the process from concept generation to finished book.

Friday, Aug. 15 @ 11 AM
Business of Writing Panel: Care and Feeding of Your Editor/Author
Kerrie Hughes (moderator), Gabrielle Harbowy, Toni L.P. Kelner, Aaron Rosenberg, David B. Coe
Experienced authors and editors show how to establish a good author/editor relationship and offer tips for getting the most from your partnership.

Friday, Aug. 15 @ 2 PM
Writer’s Craft Panel: Writing Amazing Short Stories
John Helfers (moderator), Toni L.P. Kelner, James Lowder, Jason Sanford, Catherine Shaffer
Learn what makes a great short story great, what types of stories work in short form, and tips for crafting amazing short stories of your own.

Friday, Aug. 15 @ 7 PM
Business of Writing Panel: Breaking Into a New Genre
Kelly Swails (moderator), Toni L.P. Kelner, Aaron Rosenberg, Bill Willingham
Learn how to break into a new genre when you’ve been writing in another genre for years. Our panelists have first-hand experience doing this, and they’ll share their tips and tricks.

Saturday, August 16 @ 11 AM
Writer’s Life Panel: Staying Energized
Elizabeth Vaughan (moderator), Stephen P. Kelner, Thomas M. Reid, Dave WolvertonCatherine Shaffer
Learn how to maintain your momentum and energy over the long haul of a career in writing. Our panel of experienced authors is joined by Dr. Stephen P. Kelner, author of Motivate Your Writing!

Saturday, August 16 @ 12 PM
Writer’s Life Panel: Breaking Writer’s Block
Don Bingle (moderator), Erik Scott de Bie, Stephen P. Kelner, David B. Coe, Dave Wolverton
Learn what writer’s block is and why it happens. We’ll also explore how to break free of its grasp.

Saturday, Aug. 16 @ 2 PM
Writer’s Life Panel: Persistence and the Reality of Being a Writer
Elizabeth Vaughan (moderator), Kameron Hurley, Toni L.P. Kelner, David B. Coe, Stephen P. Kelner
In writing, persistence isn’t the destination, but the name of the road every author travels. Explore what it means to persist, what the end game is, and the hard realities of the writing life.

Saturday, Aug. 16 @ 3 PM
Writer’s Life: Seven Deadly Myths of Creativity
Stephen P. Kelner
Join motivational psychologist Dr. Stephen P. Kelner as he helps you to motivate your writing through his exploration of the seven deadly myths of creativity.

Saturday, August 16 @ 6 PM
Urban Fantasy Panel: Variations on Urban Fantasy
Elizabeth Vaughan (moderator), Maurice Broaddus, Toni L.P. Kelner, David B. Coe, Gabrielle Harbowy
Discover ways to tell urban fantasy stories that don’t involve southern vampires or urban wizards. Learn to break new ground while still writing tales that resonate with the urban fantasy audience.

Where are they now? Available again!

Looking for a book to download to read during vacation? Curse of the Kissing Cousins and Who Killed the Pinup Queen?, the first two books of the Where are they Now? series, are once again available as ebooks, with brand new covers! Both are available from Amazon, Kobo, and iTunes. CurseKissingCousins A Killer Performance The cult classic sitcom, Kissing Cousins, lasted only a few seasons, but its cast is having an even harder time surviving. In the past three months, three Kissing Cousins costars have died under suspicious circumstances. Boston-based celebrity journalist Tilda Harper would way that’s a wicked big coincidence. As a freelance reporter for entertainment magazine Entertain Me!, Tilda already has good reason to investigate the deaths. But she’s also a fan of the show, and if the killer’s pattern holds, Tilda’s favorite actress, Mercy Ashford, will be the next to die. Tilda wants to warn her, but Mercy has been off the air—and off the grid—for decades. With the help of a super fanboy and a sexy bodyguard, Tilda must get to the bottom of the so-called curse of the Kissing Cousins. Is the killer someone tied to the show? A deranged fan? Or could it be Mercy herself? One thing’s certain: if Tilda doesn’t solve this case soon, the only Kissing Cousins reunion she’ll see…will be in the obituaries.


A Killer Figure The last thing entertainment reporter Tilda Harper expects is for one of her feature articles to suddenly become an obituary. But when the subject of an upcoming piece—former 50s pinup queen Sandra Sechrest—is brutally killed, Tilda’s story quickly develops into a murder investigation. There are few leads and many questions. Was it the work of greedy relatives? An obsessed fan? Or perhaps a jealous lover? Adding to the puzzle are the startling confidential connections between Sandra and the Hollywood stores of her day that Tilda uncovers while research a different project for Entertain Me! magazine. As Tilda focuses on the case, she unwittingly becomes a target herself. It seems someone has a secret they’ll do anything to keep, and Tilda’s getting a little too close to the truth. If she doesn’t pin down this pinup killer soon, Tilda could be the next to die.

Evolution of a Cover

Okay, we aren’t supposed to, but we all do it. We judge books by the cover. So as you might guess, there is a lot of back-and-forth and creative wrangling over every book cover.

Take, for instance, my alter ego Leigh Perry‘s upcoming Family Skeleton mystery The Skeleton Takes a Bow. We went through all kinds of ideas. First was the most obvious.


Unfortunately, it was the wrong kind of bow. Sid the Skeleton never wears pink. So we went back to the drawing board.


Very Hunger Games, and goodness knows Sid looks hungry. But this wasn’t quite the bow we were looking for, etiher. Besides, we left out the arrow. Is he going to shoot his ulna or his radius?

Back to the drawing yet again.


This time it looks a little too Titanic, and the bow of a sinking ship wasn’t quite what we were going for.

In fact the bow in the book is the kind an actor makes after a successful performance, say as Yorick in Hamlet.


We finally had the right kind of bow, but unfortunately, Sid’s skull wouldn’t stay on long enough for him to pose.

So what does the cover look like? You’ll have to check out BOLO Books on Feb. 18 to find out and see how you’d judge this book from its cover.

Who is Leigh Perry and Why Does She Look Like Me?

bookcover140-36I’ve started the Family Skeleton series for Berkley Prime Crime, and since mysteries about a walking, talking skeleton are a departure for me, I’m publishing under a new name: Leigh Perry. (Now you know what the L.P. stands for.) But even though I’m Leigh, I’m still Toni for the anthologies with Charlaine.

Confused yet?

If so, you can find all about Leigh and her work at