My first novel “As Good As Gone” is the story of Artie and Carmen Hayes.
When I visualize Artie and Carmen’s home and little farm in far northern Maine, what I see is the idyllic retreat my sister and her husband Steve built in tiny Castle Hill, deep in the woods behind acres of potato fields.
With a declining population hovering now around 400 and steadily declining, Castle Hill can’t afford to lose anyone. But just the other day, the front page of the local paper screamed “2 County men found dead in truck“…in Castle Hill. A call to my sister got me a little more information than was contained in the skimpy article: Steve’s uncle had called in the complaint of excessive noise around midnight that led to the discovery of the dead men. The noise apparently was from an ATV found at the murder site. It’s all pretty darned close to Ann and Steve’s hideaway.
Three days later, next to no more information has shown up in the papers. No arrests have been made. Ann said that one of the men had had a bad reputation around town for years. She thinks it’s drug related.
A killer is on the loose. Right in Ann’s back yard. Locals are warned to be on alert and pass on any relevant information.
You can’t make this kind of stuff up. I can’t anyway.
I have a whole folder of newspaper clippings of things that would strain credulity if in a novel, like a woman pined to a tree by her own car, or a body found in a car trunk at a traffic stop, or a man killed when hit by a car when he was riding a lawnmower with his daughter in his lap.
All great fodder for the imagination. If only someone would believe it.