Zev is no stranger to the Scribbler. We've been fortunate enough to have him visit previously to discuss his earlier writing.
This time, however, he is sharing the SBTS of his newest novel which has been published by Merlin Star Press of New Brunswick, Canada.
I invite you to check out their website. Links are below.
If you missed Zev’s previous visit,
please go HERE.
Read on my friends.
Zev Bagel is a two-time winner of the David Adams Richards Award and was
short-listed for the Atlantic writing awards.
Born in the UK, he moved to Calgary, Alberta in 1994, and to New
Brunswick in 2009, where he lives overlooking Shediac Bay with his wife, artist
Nicole Tremblay. The Romanian Cleaning Lady is his fifth novel. The others are Bernie
Waxman & the Whistling Kettle, Secrets, Solitary, and The Last Jew in Hania.
Title: The Romanian Cleaning Lady – a Bright & Breasy mystery
Synopsis: Lizzy Bright has just opened her office as a private investigator and her first inquiry seems like a prank. When the case takes her into the murky world of prostitution and human smuggling Lizzy is in over her head, until retired Detective Inspector William Breasy appears. But Breasy also has his air of mystery, not least the fact that he was a friend of Lizzy’s father, who vanished when she was eleven. The shadows from her past weave through the darkness of the present, pulling Lizzy deeper into a web of dangerous secrets.
Based in the historic city of Canterbury in England, this is the first in the Bright & Breasy mystery series by Zev Bagel.
I
have already completed the second book in the ‘Bright & Breasy’ series, and
am about to start on the third.
A question before you go, Zev:
Scribbler: What is the ideal spot for you when you write your stories? Music in the background or quiet. Coffee or tequila? Messy or neat?
Zev: I usually write at my desk on the computer. If I raise myself from my seat, I have a view of Shediac bay, which is always inspirational – or if it’s not, it’s relaxing. My desk is littered with odd scraps of paper, books and other paraphernalia, underneath which a telephone lurks. When I get stuck, I might call up ‘Coffitivity’ and listen to sounds of coffee-shop chatter. It makes me think I’m surrounded by people, which encourages me to keep writing. Every now and then, I will take an excerpt and read it to my wife, Nicole. This helps me to be more objective about what I’m writing and if it’s working the way I want.
An Excerpt from The Romanian Cleaning Lady.
Lizzy
walked into her flat, pulled off her shoes and flopped onto the sofa. She
hadn’t responded to any calls or messages for several hours. Now she scanned
through her phone to see what was there. The only two she felt at all like
responding to were Katya and Michael. Her friend could wait a little longer.
She called her son.
“Oh
Mum.” His voice sounded croaky. “I was kind of wondering if I can come and stay
for a bit. Few nights, that’s all. That okay?”
“Of
course, dear. You do know there’s not much room, and the spare room is a bit of
a mess at the moment. Bed’s made up, though. Did you want to come round this
evening?”
“Be
right there.”
The
doorbell buzzed thirty seconds later. Michael stood there, holdall in hand, a
dour expression on his face. Lizzy knew that look. It was Michael’s message of
disappointment at a loss, of unfairness, at himself. Perhaps all three.
“That
was quick,” said Lizzy, opening her arms to him. Michael was not the huggy
type. He made an exception this time as he walked into her embrace and let his
mother hold him.
“I’ve
been sitting in the car,” he said. “Been there for an hour or so. Actually, I
was dozing when you called.”
“Sorry
I didn’t call you back earlier, Michael. Been quite hectic today. Now let’s get
something to eat. You can sort yourself out in the spare room, and you can tell
me what’s going on if you want to. Not that I’m likely to be surprised.” She
wished she hadn’t said any of the last part. She was turning too much into her
own mother.
The
exhaustion she’d felt as she came through the door dissipated. She poked her
head into the fridge and delved into cupboards, grabbing an implausible
selection of ingredients which she transformed into a meal for both of them.
While the pots simmered, she tended to Limpy, who looked at her with eyes so
baleful Lizzy experienced the sense of shame she used to have whenever she left
her children to fend for themselves.
“Just
need some time apart,” said Michael with his mouth full. “Sarah’s going through
some kind of, I dunno, some kind of crisis or whatever. Said she’s trying to
find herself. Reading all kinds of stuff. Self-improvement she calls it. Or
self-realization. Why it means I have to move out beats me. She says she has to
have some space. Says she loves me but can’t be with me while she’s doing her
own thing. Do you have any idea what all that means, Mum? Is that what happened
with you and Dad?”
“What
happened between me and your father was Paula,” Lizzy said, regretting the
words the moment they escaped her mouth. She felt a grudging admiration for
Sarah, and wished she knew her better, a feeling that turned to guilt for being
disloyal to her son. She must have a lot to learn from Sarah.
“Anyway,”
said Michael, “I won’t be here long, whatever happens. And I’ll pay for my
keep.”
“You’ll
do no such thing. Tell you what, though. You could do some more work on my
website. I have a new person working with me and he should be up there. Ex
Detective Inspector. Impressive, eh? And I think I can do a better video now
that I've actually experienced some detective work.” Michael, she knew, had
already exceeded the usual limit of his personal revelations. Any more and he’d
drop off to sleep on the sofa. She would get more of his story in slivers, as
though picking up the shards of a broken glass with tweezers. They could
inspect the fragments after a few days; perhaps to see if the glass was
repairable, perhaps to understand its fragility and accept its demise.
Lizzy
talked to her son about her work, without mentioning specifics, apart from the
latest event—the search for a lost child, which was out of their hands, and
would soon be in the newspapers. Mostly, she talked about Bill Breasy.
“You
mean, he knew my grandfather?”
Michael always loved stories of her father.
Lizzy never got used to the fact that her son wanted to know about someone
who’d disappeared twelve years before he was born. She deduced it was because
Michael had an unsatisfying relationship with his own father, and a minimal one
with his paternal grandfather. John Bright, however, remained a mystery, and
offered the possibility of some undefined discovery. It must appeal even now to
Michael’s sense of potential adventure, which he manifested through his creation
of online video games.
“They
used to be in the same drama group. They were known as Bright and Breasy. Not
that they did a double act with the name.”
“Brilliant,”
said Michael. “Am I going to meet him soon?”
“If
you like.”
“Great.
Wait a minute. Don’t tell me. You’re not going to be the Bright and Breasy
Detective Agency?”
“’fraid
so. It depends. Anyway, brace yourself.”
It had turned past midnight by the time Lizzy got to bed. She’d forgotten to phone Katya. She dreamt of lines of police digging in muddy fields searching for a body.
