by M.E. Proctor

I grew up reading crime books. Our house was full of them. Pulp and literature. Piles of paperbacks. Colorful covers or stark monochromes with hard typefaces that shouted Reader Beware. Good writing and bad, it didn’t matter, I read everything I could lay my hands on. It helps to have parents who are voracious readers.

In retrospect, it’s baffling that it took me so long to write what I love so much to read. Apart from an early attempt for a writing class—moody insurance investigator searches for missing diamonds and stumbles upon a family’s dark secret (I need to revisit that plot someday, it rocks, pun intended.)—I didn’t touch the crime genre, neither in short nor long form. It is only when the final book of the science fiction series that obsessed me for far too long was released, that I took the plunge. Ten years ago.

M.E. Proctor

I remember clearly when Declan Shaw came into my life.

Labor Day. The unofficial end of summer. We’re sitting on the back porch, neighbors mosey over. Cool drinks, laughter, random conversation. Question: are you working on another book? It hit a nerve. I’d edited my husband’s thriller that summer (Borderline, James Lee Proctor) but I hadn’t written a word in six months. Without a new project, I was starting to feel antsy. I said, out of the blue: I’m going to write a crime novel. Everybody nodded, chitchat resumed, the neighbors went back to their barbecues. I kept thinking about it.

If you ask me what drives a story, plot or character, I’ll answer: character. The first thing that popped into my mind, on that sunny afternoon, was the name of my protagonist. Declan. No idea where that came from, not inspired by friends or relatives. The only Declan I know performs as Elvis Costello. The last name had to be a counterpoint. Short, with a musical beat. Shaw. I muttered it, said it aloud, tasted it. How a name sounds, the images it evokes are important, ask Charles Dickens. And I knew I better love it because Declan Shaw was going to pitch his tent in my head for a very long time. There was that feeling about him. He was there for the long run.

Next step: what does the man do for a living—lawyer, reporter, cop? I pictured him free-range, irked by minutiae and rules, impatient with people, smart, with a short attention span, restless. P.I.? The job fit his temperament. Easily bored. Work a case, close the case, next case. It made for a hectic private life. The location had to be Houston, my adoptive town. I gave him a touch of Texas swagger, black jeans and cowboy boots, thin cigars, and a distaste for guns. He wasn’t that kind of detective. Philip Marlowe “didn’t do divorces” and Declan “didn’t do murder.” Which I immediately proceeded to contradict with the first story I wrote: a woman hires him to find her husband’s killer. Granted, it’s a cold case. The manuscript is getting cold too, in a desk drawer.

I’ve pounded half a million words since that very special Labor Day, taking breathing pauses from Declan occasionally to write short stories and recharge the batteries. He’s as obsessive as I am. Our relationship needs time-outs. I know a lot more about him now, the good and the flawed, the irritating and the charming, the things he’s done and the friends he’s lost, why he hates guns, what he likes to cook, and his taste in music.

He loves jazz. Miles and Coltrane. Mulligan and Brubeck––“Koto Song” is a favorite.

Jazz is the reason why Declan’s path crosses April Easton’s in Love You Till Tuesday, the first book in the series (published by Shotgun Honey). Of course, he will fall for her, she has a lovely voice, and she’s one hell of a piano player. And she laughs at his pick-up lines. He’s not hired to investigate her murder, but how can he not be drawn in? She was taken before he could learn to know her.

She’s what could have been.

Even if he knew beforehand where the case would lead him, it’s doubtful he would have looked the other way.

Love You Till Tuesday––A Declan Shaw Mystery

The murder of jazz singer April Easton makes no sense, and yet she appears to have been targeted. Who ordered the hit and why? Steve Robledo, the Houston cop in charge of the investigation, has nothing to work with. Local P.I. Declan Shaw who spent the night with April has little to contribute. He’d just met her, and she was asleep when he left.

The case seems doomed to remain unsolved, forever open, and quickly erased from the headlines. And it would be if Declan’s accidental connection with the murder didn’t have unexpected consequences.

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M.E. Proctor is the author of a short story collection, Family and Other Ailments – Crime Stories Close to Home (Wordwooze Publishing). Love You Till Tuesday (Shotgun Honey) introduces Houston private detective, Declan Shaw. Proctor is a Derringer nominee. Her fiction has appeared in various anthologies and magazines. She was a freelance journalist for a music magazine, and worked as an advertising account executive, before becoming a corporate communications advisor. Born in Brussels, and a long time Houston resident, she now lives in Livingston, Texas, with husband James Lee Proctor, also a writer. Find her online at shawmystery.com, and on Substack at The Roll Top Desk: meproctor.substack.com

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