Hi friends,

For the time being, I’m going to skip over the Boston, Maine and New York events, not because they weren’t interesting and intriguing and delightful; many were. But “tour,” to me, means travel and distance, not driving up the coast for an hour or two, or catching a train at North Station. It means not sleeping in my own bed.

This tour starts with a journey to a place I’ve been before, Detroit’s Metro Airport. I’m not staying in Detroit, just passing through my native soil on the way to Madison and Milwaukee, but still, it makes me think about all the flights I’ve taken between Detroit and Boston, Boston and Detroit. It’s barely 7 A.M. and a group of drowsy teenagers fills one corner of the departure lounge. One looks heartbreakingly like my son at thirteen, trying to sleep all scrunched in his chair with his sweatshirt balled up behind his head for a pillow. The group carries trophies, an assortment of towering brassy statues, but I can’t tell what they’re for. A Chinese mother pats her baby and I settle in with a book, thinking that Mother Time passes differently from Father Time, and involves imagining your still-sleeping child at home while you sit at the airport and wait for the boarding call.

Madison, WI. Love those college towns. There’s something about the infusion of young people every year that keeps things vibrant. My escort, Nick, is one of those kids who came to college and stayed. (A good escort makes such a difference; he or she is your guide, companion, and anchorstone in a new place.) Nick, who knows his stuff, drives me to my destination, Booked for Murder, a store I instantly recognize, although the owner is new since the last time I visited. Funny how the memories come rushing back. I’m always overwhelmed by the sheer number of books on display when I walk into a mystery bookstore. What, all these people have written mysteries? What, I haven’t read them all?

Good audience. Good questions. And then at the end when I’m signing books, a woman introduces herself. It’s Aunt Pat! (I have these terrific neighbors, and every time I write a book, they appear on my doorstep and ask me to sign one for Frank’s Aunt Pat in Wisconsin.) And here she is! In the flesh! I get to inscribe her copy of Heart of the World while she’s standing there beaming. I get to talk with people who love Carlotta, and have problems with Roz, and want to know what Gloria’s going to do about her weight. It’s like stepping inside a fantasy; my characters have taken on a life of their own.

Oh, those trophies? They were for karate. Roz would have been all over those guys.

Best regards,

Linda