Indie Book Promo is happy to welcome Mike Bove to the blog. He is here to answer some questions and share information about his book, Willowtree. If this book sounds like something that you would be interested in, please use the buy links at the bottom of the page to pick up a copy or two.

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IBP: Try to describe your book in one sentence.

Mike: A retired postman, Bruce DelReno just wants to play golf with his friends, spend time with his wife and dog, but that corpse he found has him obsessed and turns him into an amateur sleuth.

IBP: Tell us a little about yourself.

Mike: I was born and schooled in Vermont, lived fifteen years on Cape Cod, and have been in Arizona for eighteen. I have always been active in sports as a player, coach, official, and fan. I was a town recreation commissioner and directed its Little League Program. I have had many and varied jobs including draftsman, sign painter, house painter, women’s gymnastics judge, storm window salesman, car rental guy, nursing home houskeeping supervisor, liquor store manager and many more. Many think I don’t know what I want to do. I say I want to do everything. I have been an avid fisherman because I lived near the ocean. Now, I am an avid golfer because its where the green grass is. I am learning to be an author, because I haven’t done that yet.

IBP: Did you always have in mind to be a writer or it just happened?

Mike: I never really had an ambition to become a writer, although during my years in teaching I had thoughts of writing a book on theater, or track and field for youth. That was because of the great amount of research and work I did to bring training and preparedness to their age level. I did adapt a Russian folk tale for the stage, produced and directed it. I wrote occasional pieces for my college newspaper and edited our yearbook. I’m sure my experience in the theater helps my writing and was an influence in the decision to write fiction.

I have always been a reader having one or more books going in different genres at all times.  Since retiring I have read a great deal more, mostly mysteries. I sat down one day and began my story that became Willowtree. I didn’t intend to publish it, but it grew on me and I became deeply involved in the process as I learned more about writing and publishing.

IBP: Do you listen to music while writing?

Mike: No. I think maybe I could have some jazz or classical music playing, but I am not usually alone, and when I am I don’t think of it. Or, it is too early in the AM or too late in the PM to play it loud enough to enjoy.  Music simply for background noise? No, thanks.

IBP: Who is your favorite character in your new release?

Mike: In Willowtree, Ben Samuel is Bruce’s Apache friend, based loosely on a real Indian friend of mine (not Apache), who seems to be a favorite character of my readers.  Ben provides most of the humor in the book with his needling, sarcasm, and quirkiness. I intend to continue and expand Ben’s role in the next book.

IBP: What is it you love most about writing? What’s the hardest part of writing for you?

Mike: I love the punctuation marks. They mean another sentence, another building block is in position. Not finished, but out there to add to, take from, or change. I also love going through all of the notes and research to form the scene or plot, then finding the right words to convey it well. Of course, figuring out the correct punctuation or placement of the marks is also a lot of fun.

Actually, I lied. Punctuating and sifting through and arranging notes is the hard part. The part I love is when I read something I wrote and I get it, I smile, and am satisfied. Sometimes someone else gets it, smiles, and appreciates what I wrote.  I love that more.

IBP: Did you do any research before starting or during of the writing of the books?

Mike: Most of the research before beginning the manuscript is generalized information and it becomes more specific later. For example, I studied information on poisonous plants before starting Willowtree, but the particular plant and its characteristics I would use in the story required more research. I like to have the facts correct when mentioning something like a medical procedure, or even simply the color of a Mary Kay cosmetic bag. (Pink and black. I looked it up.)

IBP: Are there any particular books and/or authors that inspired you and continue to do so?

Mike: Perhaps what I appreciate the most in a novel is good dialogue. Writers whose dialogue makes me smile, or laugh, or re-read a sentence are the ones I admire and who give me motivation. Some of those are Joseph Wambaugh, George V. Higgins, Ross MacDonald, and William G. Tappley. As far as inspiration goes, William Shakespeare, fabulous wordsmith that he was, inspires me to use fewer words. My favorite provider of inspiration, humor, quotations, and appreciation of writing is Kurt Vonnegut. Not a mystery writer, but one whose books I re-read, underline, dog-ear, and treasure for the enjoyment they bring me.

IBP: How important do you find the communication between you and your readers? Do you reply to their messages or read their reviews?

Mike: I welcome and truly appreciate all messages from readers, and I read reviews as I come across them. I accept praise and criticism with an open mind, hoping that they may help improve my future writing. I do respond to personal messages and e-mail. If a reader took the time to send me a message, I feel a response is appropriate. My responses must always be positive, even if only thanking the person for reading my book.

IBP: What are your thoughts on ebooks? (i.e. love them, hate them, wave of the future)

Mike: I resisted ebooks for a time, as I resisted Windows, fiberglass skis and vaulting poles, and getting a cell phone. But I have to love them since I sell a large number of them,  and I read quite a few. Promos offering free or discounted ebooks are a large part of my marketing plan. The convenience and cost of ebooks make them immensely popular, so all authors must get on board to maximize notoriety and sales of their work.

Willowtree will be free for Kindle on Nov. 14 and 15 on Amazon.

However, as a reader, I prefer a bookstore, library, or bookshelf over a Kindle or Nook.

A book to me is still made of paper. The books I read for enjoyment are made of paper.

IBP: Are you working on anything new and if so when can we expect to see it?

Mike: I am in the middle of the second Bruce DelReno mystery. It is about a professional golfer who returns to his home town of Willowtree, for a benefit exhibition and is murdered. Of course DelReno is somehow involved, so he and his cohorts feel obligated to solve that case. Since the victim is a national celebrity, the case has ramifications extending far beyond the small town of Willowtree. The book is tentatively titled Stinger Maguire, and I expect to publish it in early 2013. Interested folks can find the first two chapters on my Goodreads author page.

Bio:

Mike was born in Burlington, Vermont and attended Castleton State College earning a degree in Physical Education in 1967.  He taught in Rutland, Vt. for 12 years. During that time he coached track, soccer, and was drama director at the High School. He was active in community theater. City teachers went on strike in 1979; Mike and his wife, Jane moved to Cape Cod, Massachusetts with their two young sons. The boys excelled in the new school and community environment. Jane became the school nurse. Mike was very involved in community activities and joined the Postal Service.

After the sons finished college and moved to warmer climates, Mike and Jane moved to Sedona, Arizona. He retired from the Postal Service after twenty years in his second career, in 2010. He is an avid golfer and at age 69 has the lowest handicap of his life. He works as little as possible at the local golf course, but plays as much as possible. Mike and Jane enjoy traveling in the Southwest and visiting family in Vermont, New Jersey and New Orleans. He also writes Bruce DelReno mysteries when he should be sleeping.

Mike can be found:   Facebook   *  Website   *   Blog   *   Twitter   *   Goodreads

Willowtree can be purchased on Amazon.

Excerpt:

I figured Miggy was working as his pickup wasn’t at the bunkhouse.  No vehicle parked at the big house either.  I pulled in near the front porch steps.  I expected Squeek to be alone, but walked around the back of the house to see if a car was there.  Nothing but the old golf cart was under the carport.

I went back to my car and picked up the bag of burgers and fries I’d stopped at Sonic for.  I closed the car door, turned and saw the door of the house open.

“Hey, there!  Ya need somethin?”  It was Squeek stepping onto the porch, in his sunglasses.  Not wearing his old jeans, just sunglasses.  The skinny, wrinkled, old naked man, his jewels exposed to the sun, yelled at me.  “What you sellin, buster?”

“Hello, Mr. Grey.”  I said, “Annabel sent you some lunch.  Like a cheeseburger?  Real Angus beef?”

“Had some real good Angus here, Herefords, too.  Where’d they go off to?  What you do with Annybell?  Where is she?”  I tried not to look, but he was quite animated, and parts of him were swinging in the sunlight.

I went up a couple of steps, offering the opened bag from Sonic.  Maybe his sense of smell would be working.  “How about a cheeseburger and fries, Squeek?  I’ll tell you about Annabel.”

“Set there at that table, will ya?  It’s cold out here, I gotta get a shirt on.”

I went to the table with the tin can ashtray, pushed it to the far edge, pulled a chair out for Squeek, and sat in the other.  He was back in a minute wearing a cotton, striped western shirt, unbuttoned, and plopped his bare buttocks into the chair.  I focused on his face the whole time.  Same pallid complexion as the first time we met.  Gray skin, gray hair, gray teeth.  Mister Grey.

I placed a burger on napkins for each of us and the french fries on the folded bag so we both could reach them, and several packets of ketchup.  I said I was sorry I forgot to buy drinks.

Squeek tore open all of the ketchup and squeezed it onto his burger, without first removing the top part of the bun.  He lifted it to his mouth, ketchup dripping off it, and took a huge bite.  At least one packet worth of ketchup bounced off his chin and landed you-know-where.  Not bothered, he said, “Umm, good.”

Squeek had eaten about half of the cheeseburger, and the fries that didn’t end up on his lap, when he decided he was still cold.  It was about 75 degrees and we were sitting in the light from a high in the sky, mid-day sun.

“It’s cold out here.”  He said, getting up and leaving a trail of red droplets and potatoes on his way into the house.  Man, this guy was weird.  And I hadn’t decided if he was high or not.  He was back in a minute.

Squeek was now wearing sunglasses, unbuttoned cowboy shirt, a pair of old man’s mule slippers, and Hunt’s ketchup on his limp manhood.  He sat, sipped the beer he brought out for himself, then went back to work on the burger.  I was finished mine, and I passed on the fries.

“Squeek.”  He rolled his eyeballs toward me.  I continued, “Squeek, do you know where Annabel is?”

“Work’s down the road.  Brings me lunch.”

“Squeek, do you know where Vernon is?”

“Nope?”

“Do you know that your brother, Vernon, died?  He died in this house.”

“Guess so.  Don’t know where he’s at.”

“Bob,” I said, thinking maybe using his other name would spur cognitivity, “Do you know Hannah?  That pretty girl, Hannah.  She ever come out to the ranch?”

“Bitch.” Then, “Want another beer?”

“No, thanks.  When was Hannah here last?”

Sipping his beer, “Who?”

“Hannah Snowberry.”

“Nope.  Annybell brings me lunch.”

Why would he say, “bitch,” unless he knew Hannah?  Otherwise this conversation was not informative, yet it was entertaining.  This guy didn’t seem to be strung out on the locoweed.  He wasn’t having those spaz attacks like before.  But he sure wasn’t in the neighborhood of reality.  Annie said he was really sick.  I figured he had alzheimeral schizophrenia.  I didn’t know if those were real words, but to me they described his malady.

“Have another Bud,” he said.

“No, thanks, Squeek.”  I began picking up the trash, “I’ll throw this away.  Waste basket in the kitchen?”  I wanted a peek inside and he did not seem to object as I opened the door.  I went in.  He followed with his beer, silently.

I was in a very large living room, very dusty.  The furnishings looked old, but of quality.  A pair of worn jeans was laying on a stuffed sofa, a coffee mug on the end table next to it.  Otherwise the room was neater than I had expected.  I spotted the kitchen through a doorway next to an old upright piano against the far wall.  I went in to dispose of our lunch wrappings, which I tossed on top of beer cans in the basket next to the fridge.  I was a practicing snoop, so I peered into the refrigerator.  More Bud, milk, eggs, bread, and not much else. I did notice a can of Folger’s coffee.   Beer didn’t really explain the schizoid behavior.  But I was no expert, since I quit beer in favor of lemonade many years ago.  My reasoning was that the money I saved would be better spent on greens fees.

The freezer section was stocked with TV dinners.  I noticed a coffee bag, less than half full, in the freezer door.  It had a rubber band around it.  I removed the band, unrolled the top of the bag, and read the label.  BLACK MAGIC ESPRESSO, from Vermont Coffee Roasters.

I returned to the other room.  Squeek was standing, unsteadily, one leg in the jeans.  He hopped, trying to get the other foot in, and fell onto the sofa.  I helped him to a sitting position, then to get his left foot into the jeans.  I did not want to, but I noticed the ketchup.

He said he was feeling fine and seemed to be resting on the sofa.  I told Bob, Squeek Grey that I enjoyed dining with him and I’d see him another time.  I left the house, proud to have at least fed and clothed someone in need.

I walked to the back of the house for a look beyond what I’d seen around the carport previously.  Another road, or trail led into the brush and a stand of junipers.  This led to the north.  I had never before thought of anything on that side of the ranch.  It must be another former horse riding trail, one that now has tire tracks.  There were tracks from a golf cart, also from a full sized automobile.  One third, the outside third of the tread mark, looked like bent fingers pointing toward one end of the vehicle.  The inner third like fingers pointing toward the other.  The middle third reminded me of two Mr. Peanut shells at an angle.

Driving out, I stopped at the end of the long dirt driveway leading from Squeek’s house, in front of the old, unused mailbox.  The dirt road to the right, or south, soon turned to pavement and led back toward the golf course and the town.  I had thought it ended here at the driveway of the Grey’s ranch.  I certainly did not notice on my first trip here, or my second, with Ben, that the road continued past the ranch.  I would have noted it, especially if there were tire tracks, like the tire tracks I was now looking at, maybe from an off-road vehicle.  They looked similar, if not the same as those near the house.  Fingers and Mr. Peanut.

The old all-wheel-drive Subaru did well on the rough, narrow, dusty, northbound road, which quickly turned left.  I followed the car tracks about a quarter of a mile.  They abruptly ended behind Squeek’s house.  I had made a circle.  I could, anybody could, visit this house using the back driveway, maybe part of another old horse riding trail.  I could arrive quietly through the junipers, park there, and go into the house through the carport.  I would be unnoticed from the bunkhouse where Miggy-Mike lived.

Driving home I thought maybe Vernon was surprised, or secretly visited by his killer, who had come in the back way.  Whoever shoved Calvin off the cliff came from the ranch the front way.  Or from the golf course.  The trails and roads and paths formed a maze.  The killer or killers had found their way through the labyrinth.  As I tried to get through it in my mind, a dead body made me start over, and the maze became larger.  I had gathered some clues traveling through the maze.  I had to find others elsewhere.

Genny would be home at around four o’clock.  I learned long ago that a 7 to 3 nursing shift ended closer to 3:45.  My plan for the evening was to put the clue search on hold and convince Genny to go out to dinner.

We enjoyed a luscious French chicken dish at the hotel in Jerome.  Gen had a funny story about a male patient who would hide under his bed from time to time.  Today he was missing and not found under his bed.  The frantic search throughout the facility and grounds ended with a loud screech from the lady in the room across the hall from his.  This lady had found him under her bed when she retrieved a dropped letter.  I asked if he was naked.  She said he was dressed.  I related my story about a naked man.