Shaded Light: The Case of the Tactless Trophy Wife: A Paul Manziuk and Jacquie Ryan Mystery (The Manziuk and Ryan Mysteries Book 1)

by J. A. Menzies

  Due to my long association with them, I frequently forget that Paul Manziuk and Jacquie Ryan fit into the latter category. Although Paul and Jacquie first appeared in print in Shaded Light (my first mystery novel which was published by St Kitts press in 2000), they have been alive in my mind for more than 19 years—longer than my youngest son has been with me.

  The day after Christmas, 1982, I was reading a mystery from the library. I tossed it on the floor and complained aloud. My lips eventually formed those oft-quoted words, “I could write a better book than this.”

  My ever-helpful husband, who happened to be reading the newspaper in the same room, looked over at me and said, “So, why don't you?”

  Why not, indeed? I grew up reading mysteries. The first and probably most influential were the Trixie Beldon books. As I grew older, my grandmother introduced me to Erle Stanley Gardner. I eventually found John Creasy and Agatha Christie in our library, and soon the mystery world opened up before me.

  As for writing, I was hooked on being a writer from the day I discovered the power of getting attention through mere words. I can still remember reading my story about “Alice in Vitaminland” on Parents’ Day at my school and loving the attention I received.

  As time passed, however, my need to earn a living pulled me into a career as a high school English teacher. With little time for my own writing, I did come up with some very creative assignments and tests. Then I detoured into raising a family, community and church work, and eventually homeschooling my kids. Now and then I wrote a little bit, but never much.

  But that Christmas, something within me said, “Now.”

  Dreaming up a plot wasn't difficult. For years, I had been noting locations I thought would be appropriate for hiding a body–like rounding a beautifully manicured tree in a serene Japanese garden and thinking, “What a perfect spot to notice two feet sticking out!”

  I knew the storyline would be similar to that of the traditional British puzzle of Agatha Christie and Georgette Heyer because that is the kind of book I most enjoy. I also knew I would use police detectives for my series characters. I couldn’t imagine myself ever being a PI or an amateur detective, never mind coming up with a plausible plot for one. Besides, I wanted to focus on what I felt would be my strength—characterization.

  So what I needed were my own personal police people—the ones who would carry the series.

  It seemed to me that for a long series, two people offer much more license for discussion and arguments and all that good stuff. Even Perry Mason had Della Street. I have long felt that one of the weaknesses of a long-running series with a single point-of-view character is coming up with new and interesting side-issues. Having two main characters from uniquely different backgrounds would increase the options exponentially.

  But which characters?

  Although I was raised in isolated small towns in western Canada, for the past twenty years I have been a citizen of the most culturally diverse city in the world—Toronto. A patchwork quilt of culture and language, abundance and poverty, politeness and menace, neon colors and monochromatic haze—the good, the bad, and all the in-between—Toronto has become one of the lenses through which I see life.

  The characters that came to me, fully formed and, in my mind at least, alive and kicking, are perfectly suited to the city that is Toronto.

  Paul Manziuk. Well, he isn’t kicking exactly. But breathing. Moving slowly, every action pertinent. Thinking, eyes half-closed, expression mummy-like. A big man at six foot five, Paul is certainly modeled on several large men who have intimidated me in the past. But he isn’t any of them. He is uniquely himself.

  Paul is 47, a homicide detective with a wife, Loretta, and three children aged 17 to 24. His parents emigrated to Canada from the Ukraine right after World War II and he was born and brought up in Toronto. His parents were fiercely independent blue-collar people with a strong work ethic and a desire to make their new home better than the old.

  Unlike many of today’s series cops, Paul isn’t going through a divorce or mid-life crisis. He is married to the only person he ever wanted to marry, and he knows that her sacrifices have held their family together and helped their children live complete lives. He knows that Loretta could carry on without him if she had to, because in her own way she is every bit as strong as he is—perhaps stronger. He is proud beyond words of his eldest son’s recent opportunity to study for his Ph.D. in ancient history at Oxford University, of his daughter’s desire to teach high school, and of his 17-year-old son’s intention to develop computer programs for use in the police force.

  Paul is in many ways a pragmatic realist; yet somewhere deep inside, at the very core of his being, there dwells an idealist who dreams of a day when evil will be defeated and justice will prevail. So he goes about his daily job of sorting killers out from the rest of society so that the majority of us might be free to follow our dreams. He strives always to produce, not simply an acceptable solution, but the right solution. He detests incompetence and lack of diligence.

  Paul’s foil is Jacqueline Ryan, a 28-year-old policewoman who lives with her mother, grandmother, aunt and cousin. An immigrant from Jamaica, Jacquie’s university-educated father drove a taxi in Toronto until he was killed during a botched robbery. Her mother later married a Caucasian man who became abusive. Jacquie got a lot of support from her grandmother and aunt, and now the five women live together as a new/old kind of family—three generations of women providing a foundation that offers security and laughter amid constant turmoil and tug-of-war.

  Jacquie has no man in her life. Since she was a child, she has intimidated the opposite sex by her brains, her athletic prowess, and her drive. A few men have shown interest, but none has reached even first base. Part of the problem, of course, is the hurt she has buried deep inside as a result of first her father’s death and then her stepfather’s abusiveness. She has yet to meet a man who interests her enough to entice her to let her guard down. Besides, she has no time for romantic games. She has too much to prove in the real world.

  The Toronto police force has a mandate to promote more women and more minorities. Jacquie and Paul both know she has been promoted to homicide primarily because she is a black woman and therefore meets both parts of the mandate. However, Jacquie doesn’t hesitate to grasp the opportunity with both hands. She is determined to prove not only that she deserves the promotion but also that she can be as good as any cop—even Manziuk.

  Jacquie is a spark plug—prone to jumping in where angels wouldn't go. As she and Paul appeared in my mind, I could see them arguing with each other, her making up in energy what she lacks in size, him feeling if she would just calm down and listen more, it would all work out in a more orderly manner. They have a unique relationship—in some ways father-daughter, in other ways mentor and novice, occasionally flame and tinder, and now and then just two tired cops who both want to find the truth.

  In my mind, as in my books and stories, they are equals. Parts of a whole. Just as I believe men and women are equal, yet at the same time different, and both needed. Incomplete without the other, whether in a marriage relationship or a business relationship.

  And incomplete, of course, without me.

  It’s a strange feeling to think that these people I have known so well for so many years have no existence except in my mind and in the pages of my stories. To me, they are so real. So alive. So vital and energetic and caring. They have so much to learn, especially about each other. And they will learn, if I choose to let them.

  It’s scary, but also sad, to realize that Paul and Jacquie will only be known by others if I plug in my computer, take hold of my keyboard, and write them into life. Without Paul and Jacquie in my world, I am incomplete. Without me, they don’t even exist.

  Glitter of Diamonds

  The Case of the Reckless Radio Host

  It’s Toronto in July. There’s an out-of control baseball player. A frenzied sports media. A radio talk-show host who enjoys playing de
vil’s advocate. The field is ready—for murder.

  “A finely drawn police procedural written in the style of Georgette Heyer, long considered queen of the British mystery genre... appealing characters, creative plot and classic Agatha Christie style writing.” The Suspense Zone

  Enter the world of professional baseball and the media that surrounds it.

  Homicide detective Inspector Paul Manziuk is mourning the death of his best friend. Constable Jacqueline Ryan is trying to get her bearings and figure out how to keep from irritating an already-stressed Manziuk without losing her self-respect. But not far from Toronto police headquarters, two people are speaking words that will lead to murder.

  Rico Velasquez, the Toronto Matrix's new Cuban pitcher, is determined to prove he deserves the huge contract he’s been given. So he explodes in anger and derision when a reliever gives up a home run that takes away his win. A day later, Stasey Simon, a radio talk-show host who thrives on controversy, asks on-air for a volunteer to knock some sense into Rico.

  Before long, groundskeepers at the Diamond Dome find Rico's body in the bullpen, and Manziuk and Ryan are given the task of arresting the murderer before the case escalates into an international incident.

  Of course, Stasey herself is a prime suspect. So are several other members of the sports media, an obsessed fan, Rico's neglected wife, the pitcher Rico embarrassed, the elusive owners of the baseball team, and a Marilyn Monroe wannabe who seemed to think Rico was her Joe DiMaggio.

  Manziuk draws on his own love of the game of baseball while Ryan struggles to make sense of a sport she’s never watched.

  “Reminiscent of golden age mysteries.” Library Journal

  “Plot twists galore and you are guessing to the end.” Armchair Interviews

  “Wit and originality.” NoName Cafe

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  An Excerpt from Glitter of Diamonds

  Diamonds are a girl’s best friend.

  From “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes,” 1953.

  Words by Jule Styne and music by Leo Robin.

  Written for the 1949 Broadway musical Gentlemen Prefer Blondes,

  sung by Carol Channing,

  and later used in the movie of the same name,

  sung by Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell.

  ONE

  Pitcher Rico Velasquez stormed into the Diamond Dome's home team's lounge, picked up one of the baseballs waiting to be autographed, and threw a 90-mile-an-hour fastball into the middle of the television screen.

  Three of his teammates had been playing cards and watching the July holiday afternoon baseball game on the television monitor. As the screen shattered, they jumped to their feet and, to a man, scurried into the adjacent locker room. At six foot three, with 220 pounds of well-coordinated muscle and bone, Rico wasn’t someone you confronted without a good deal of thought.

  As the rest of the team began coming in after the game’s end, Rico yelled in Spanish, “They’re useless! I want some muscle behind me. We need some trades!” Spotting a bat lying on a chair, he picked it up. Shouting “I want to win!” he shattered one of the plaster walls with the wooden bat. Then he laughed and dropped the bat, his anger appeased by the gaping hole.

  Rico’s teammates kept their distance.

  Ginny Lovejoy and Kyle Schmidt, along with other members of the sports media who trailed the players into the locker room, made copious notes.

  Sitting on a rough bench that was bolted to the floor beside the cabin of a fishing boat working its way to Florida, Alita Velasquez took a much-folded piece of paper from her pocket and read it for the twentieth time.

  In Spanish, it said:

  Lita

  I pitched again today, and I was amazing. My manager and my team were as happy as little kids with candy. I’m not just a baseball player; I’m a hero. I’m 8 and 3 with an ERA of only 1.96. The rest of the team is pretty good, too, except for a few players who should be replaced instead of kept only because of sentiment. The fans love me. The other players on my team, except for a few who are jealous, love me too. Even the opposition players admire me. We have a very good chance to win the pennant and then the World Series.

  There’s some money in the bank account for you to use for the next few months. My agent knows how to do that. See that my parents get half.

  It’s too bad you have to be stuck in Cuba, but really, it’s for the best. Toronto’s a big city and would seem very strange to you. And you’d be alone most of the time. Later we’ll work out some way for you to come to Canada and we can begin a family. Think what my sons will be able to do! I didn’t even own a decent glove until I was 14—and that was a cast-off. My sons will have everything they could wish for, all of it new.

  Your husband,

  Rico Velasquez

  Alita refolded the letter and put it back into the deep pocket of her skirt. She shut her eyes and hugged herself. Was she doing the right thing, or was she the fool her father had called her the night before she married Rico?

  A wave hit the boat and her stomach lurched. Pulling herself to her feet, she staggered to the railing. Why, on top of everything else, did she have to be one of those unfortunate people who become seasick the moment they go on water?

  “God, why do you allow this?” she muttered in Spanish.

  Late Tuesday morning, baseball fan Lawrence Smith sat in his kitchen eating a ham sandwich while reading the sports section of the Toronto Register.

  “Why does he have to say things like that?” Lawrence complained aloud. He knew Kyle Schmidt was only doing his job as the sports reporter for the Register, but why did he always seem so negative? And was it really necessary to use thousand-dollar words like crepuscular?

  Pushing his plate aside, Lawrence read the offending paragraphs out loud, carefully pronouncing each word, doing his best to determine if it was really as negative as it had seemed in his first reading.

  Lackluster Performance Dims Celebration

  by Kyle Schmidt

  It’s the July long weekend, and you sit on the edge of your seat expecting to be delighted and entertained.

  Not for you the artificial excitement of the cool crepuscular hours, with the momentary bursts from sky rockets, Roman candles, and fountains against a darkling sky. For the baseball fan, what’s needed is the sizzling heat of the afternoon, explosions of bat against ball, and headlong rushes of two-hundred-pound men into small rectangular bases.

  Let the game begin!

  Except—perhaps someone forget to tell the Toronto Matrix what day it was. Because their performance yesterday afternoon was lackluster, dismal, and sporadic; it left the 30,000 fans in attendance desperately seeking something else to celebrate….

  Shaking his head, Lawrence folded the paper and set it aside before picking up the sports section of the Register’s rival newspaper, the Toronto Daily News.

  He turned to Ginny Lovejoy’s column. Lawrence could count on Ginny to write something he could understand.

  Matrix Need to Put a Lid on It

  by Ginny Lovejoy

  It could have been so different yesterday. The Matrix started off with two runs in the first inning. Going to be a great afternoon! Except those two runs were all they got—while giving up five.

  Overall, the team turned in a tired performance that made you wonder if perhaps they’d been out celebrating a day early. But then, when do baseball players have time to celebrate? The end of the season, I suppose. And how many teams get to celebrate then?

  So there’s no point in ragging on them. One dreary loss doesn’t negate all the great games we’ve had this year. They’ve still got over three months to show us what they can do!

  But they really need to get it together. Rumors have it that at least one player was so disgusted by the performance of the rest of the team yesterday that he trashed a television set and put a hole in a wall in the clubhouse during the ninth inning. Please, guys
, we don’t need things like that….

  Lawrence cringed. The unnamed player was Rico, he was sure of that. Lawrence shook his head. He never lost his own temper, and he tended to mistrust anyone who did.

  A noisy ringing began, and he looked at his clock. Ten to one. Nearly time. The radio was already on, but he turned up its volume and got settled in to listen. As the news ended, trumpets announced the Stasey Simon Show, and then she was on, her deep, warm voice caressing the airwaves.

  “Stasey Simon here. For the next three hours, we’re going to talk about sports in a way no one else can. Because there’s only one Stasey Simon. But ya’ll know that, don’t you? So pull up a chair, or find a place to park so you can give me your full attention, because for the next few hours, you’re mine.

  “Now, what are we going to talk about today? How about the Matrix? Wasn’t that game yesterday pathetic? As if they had no heart. And I’m wondering if they do. We’ve been fed a line this year about how the Matrix are one big, happy family—‘one for all and all for one’—but what I saw yesterday was an edgy, maybe even dysfunctional team. I hear there are a number of different factions, some of which barely speak to the others. And I didn’t see a leader out there, either. Makes me really wonder.

  “On the other hand, you don’t need to be happy to win games. And the Matrix, for the most part, have been winning this year. Should we care about anything else?