As a writer of fiction, I tend to spend a good deal of time in an imaginary
world of my own creation; that seems to come with the territory, and as long as
it doesnโt interfere with my functioning in real life (as it did the time I
became so wrapped up in mental plotting that I drove myself home from Mobile,
Alabamaโa distance of about twenty milesโwithout afterwards recalling how Iโd
gotten there), it isnโt a problem. Every now and then, though, my two worlds
collide, with dangerous (see above) or, more frequently, ludicrous results.
One of these occurred during the spring of 2012, when I was writing the
Regency-set mystery that eventually became
FAMILY PLOT. During the
course of researching that book, Iโd discovered that digitalis, the medicine
still used today to treat heart patients, had existed as early as 1785, and that
it is derived from the foxglove plant. I used my new knowledge in plotting the
mystery at the center of the book. (This is not a spoiler, as the cause of death
is determined very shortly after the discovery of the body.)
Meanwhile, in real life, my husband and I had bought a house in Colorado the
previous fall, and now that the winter snows were gone, we were ready to do some
landscaping. So we went to Loweโs to shop for plants. While browsing the garden
center, I came across a big table covered with flowering plants whose tall stems
and long, cuplike purple flowers, resembling the fingers of a glove, looked
strikingly familiar. I looked at the shelf label, and my suspicions were confirmed.
I didnโt think, didnโt hesitate, just called to my long-suffering husband, Mike,
and blurted out the first thing that came into my head. โOh, look! Foxglove! I
killed somebody with that!โ
Oops.
I think they have my picture posted at Loweโs these days, right under a sign
that says, โHAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN?โ
FAMILY PLOT
In disgrace with her aristocratic in-laws, recently widowed Lady Fieldhurst is
exiled to Scotland with her three young nephews in tow. On impulse, she and the
boys decide to stay at an isolated seaside inn under an assumed name, where they
can enjoy a holiday far away from the scandal that still plagues the family.
But trouble soon finds them when the boys discover an unconscious woman on the
beachโa woman who bears a startling resemblance to the local lairdโs daughter,
missing and presumed dead for the last fifteen years. Uncertain whether to
welcome her as a returning prodigal or denounce her as a fraud, Angus Kirkbride
sends to London for a Bow Street runnerโwhich presents a dilemma for Lady
Fieldhurst, since she has chosen to call herself Mrs. Pickett after the handsome
young man who saved her from hanging for the murder of her husband.
Meanwhile John Pickett, hopelessly pining for Lady Fieldhurst, resolves to
forget her by marrying another. When magistrate Patrick Colquhoun receives
Kirkbrideโs summons, he packs Pickett off to Scotland before his most junior
runner can do anything rash.
Upon his arrival, Pickett is surprised (though not at all displeased) to
discover that he has acquired a โwifeโ in the person of Lady Fieldhurst. But
when Angus Kirkbride dies only hours after announcing his intention of changing
his will in his daughterโs favor, โMr. and Mrs. Pickettโ must join forces to
discover the truth about a family reunion suddenly turned deadly.
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