Cover to Cover, multi-author event @ColesPenticton

 

Tangled Isla #20 in Best Sellers in Canadian Women Writers!

 

Tangled Isla Book #7, Isla Mujeres Mysteries

#20 of the Best Sellers in Canadian Women Writers.

Grab your copy today!

Has an unidentified killer of several Florida women relocated to the tropical paradise of Isla Mujeres?

Leading up to the busiest time of the year on Isla Mujeres, four young women similar in appearance to the Florida victims, are unaccounted for and have been reported as missing by concerned friends.

Longing for a reunion with her island friends Jessica Sanderson returns to Mexico on a solo visit, leaving her partner Mike Lyons with the challenging task of babysitting her legendary and finicky dog, Sparky.

When Jessica arrives on the island she is persuaded to participate in the annual children’s parade, wearing the Minnie Mouse costume. The parade is disrupted by an unexplained event, and Jessica becomes entangled in the mystery of the missing women.

Will Jessica be able to solve this mystery without the help of Sparky, her famous clue-finding pooch?

Available in online bookstores.

Best Sellers in Canadian Women Writers - Top 100

 Two of my mystery novels made the top 100 list. 

Trouble Isla hit #97, and Treasure Isla hit #99!! 

Grab your copy today, and join the adventure.

Available on most online bookstores

Isla Mujeres Mysteries

Treasure Isla

Trouble Isla

Tormenta Isla

Temptation Isla

Terror Isla

Twisted Isla

Tangled Isla

Death in the Vineyards Mysteries

CORKED

SMASHED

CRUSHED

CANNED

Sparky's Epic Adventure Across North America (Grand Manan to Saint Johns NB)

 June 16th: I have a few days to catch up with blog posts. At times, I just want to do a massive photo dump on Facebook and stop there, but my OCD heart needs to document the experience in better detail. Besides, I know when I look at the photo dumps of my FB friends, I frequently wonder, "Where was this photo taken? And why?" 

The Sparkinator and I caught the 9:30 a.m. boat from Grand Manan to the mainland of New Brunswick. I had a reservation for a much later crossing, but once I am up and organised, I want to be on the move. I stopped at the ticket booth in North Head, Grand Manan, and asked if I could change my reservation. 

"Sure. No problem!" And then we were on the boat. 

Unfortunately, it was another foggy morning, and the ship's captain was required to sound the fog horn at frequent intervals. So, now my pooch is well and truly terrified of travelling on car ferries. He shook and shivered the entire 90-minute crossing. I'll have to drug him for the 7-hour crossing on July 2nd to Newfoundland.

We landed in Blacks Harbour, New Brunswick. It's a cute area that I couldn't see on the way to Grand Manan because of the heavy fog. Our next stop was beautiful Dipper Cove, a short detour on Highway 790, off Highway 1. I could live there! It's tiny, sheltered, and right on the ocean!  (And, I might say that a few more times about other Maritime communities in the coming months.)

By 2:00 in the afternoon, we were at our okay-average Holiday Inn Express on the west side of Saint Johns. I didn't feel like exploring anymore and napped instead. My travel partner was okay with that!

Cheers, Lynda & The Sparkinator

Cheeky seagull Grand Manan NB

Seal Harbour Grand Manan

Leaving Blacks Harbour, NB

Leaving Blacks Harbour, NB

Dipper Cove, New Brunswick

Dipper Cove, New Brunswick

Dipper Cove, my Mazda gets around

I'm a hero! - excerpt from A Surprise Gift, Sparky's story

 

I’m a hero!

“I’m going rollerblading,” Servant said to Driver. 

(Servant and Driver are the names that Thomas the Cat gave our humans when he first met them.) 

Servant was carrying a pair of boots that had a row of wheels attached to the bottom, thick gloves, a hard thing like the moto drivers wear on their heads, and a broom.

“What’s the broom for?” Driver asked.

Good question. Why would she need a broom? I wondered.

“For sweeping the concrete pad at the park,” she replied. “The little kids like to toss pebbles onto the concrete. If my blades hit the stones, I might trip.”

“Okay, have a good time,” he said.

Wagging my tail excitedly, I waited for her to clip my leash to my collar and take me along. I have no clue what rollerblading is, but I want to go with her.

“No, Sparky, you have to stay home and look after the house,” she said.

I tucked my tail and slunk into my hiding place under the sofa. When she says those words, I know I must stay home with the cats.

Servant bent over and looked under the sofa. “Don’t worry, Sparky, we’ll go for a golf cart ride later.”

I gave her my sad-eyed-don’t-leave-me look, but she just smiled at me and shut the door.

A short time later, I heard a horrible shrieking noise coming from somewhere down the street. Oh no! I think Servant is hurt. I raced around the living room, looking for an exit. All the doors were tightly closed. Then I jumped onto the kitchen table and slammed my broad shoulders through the partially open window. It hurt! A lot! But I had to save my friend, Servant.

“Sparky! Stop!” Driver shouted at me.

I didn’t stop. I dashed outside and listened. There. More screams. Oh no, I hope I can save her. I ran south towards the little park where I sometimes swim in the ocean.

I ran, and ran, over the sharp rocks. Over the big stones. Over the sand, and through the prickly bushes. Suddenly, the screaming stopped.

Panting and frightened, I raced into the park searching frantically for my human.

Then I heard Servant’s laughter coming from the street.

“She’s so cute. But my goodness, she’s noisy.” Servant said. She was standing beside a man and his daughter. They were all looking down at a small dog.

What an ugly dog. It was pink and hairless and made snorting noises like those dogs with the squished faces. It had two toes on each foot that looked dangerously sharp. The man picked up the weird dog, and it started to scream again. “She doesn’t like to be picked up. But, she’s still too little to jump in the car on her own.”

Servant noticed me, “Sparky, what are you doing here?” She patted her thigh to call me to her, but I stayed back. My feet were planted. My sharp fangs were ready to use. I was prepared to spring into action if that pink dog attacked Servant.

“There he is,” said Driver as he parked the golf cart beside us. “When the screaming started, Sparky jumped on the table and barged his way through the window. The one that we leave locked open, just wide enough for the cats to come and go. It was a very tight fit for Sparky.”

The man stuffed his weird little dog inside his car, and the shrieks stopped. “I’m really sorry about the awful noise,” he said with a little shrug.

“It’s no problem,” Servant said, then bent down and called me to her. “Sparky baby, did you bruise your shoulders when you forced your way out of the window?”

“Guau-guau, jau-jau,” I answered. I was sore, but very relieved that she was okay.

“You are my hero! You saved me from the piglet,” she said with a wide grin.

Her hero! I felt very important. That piglet must be a dangerous animal. It certainly sounded dangerous.

Driver and Servant waved goodbye to the man, and we headed back home in our golf cart. A little later, we had lunch at Ballyhoo Restaurante in Centro, to celebrate.

Servant said we were celebrating me being her hero!

Woof, woof, Sparky

Read more of my stories in this book available on Amazon! 

And 11 mystery novels feature me! 

Rocking around the Christmas tree ....

My sisters and I, about 1954.    

Merry Christmas, everyone! 

I know, it's not politically correct to say that anymore, but I was brought up celebrating Christmas. 

Our family went to church, two days a year - Christmas Eve and Easter Sunday. How many of you did that? Come on now, hands up. 

Dad's parents were a strict Baptist mother and a father who was probably agnostic if not an atheist. Mom was adopted when she was seven by a couple who had recently moved from Iceland to Canada, so her religious upbringing centred around the Lutheran doctrine. My parents compromised. When we did go to church, it was at the United Church. 

Most years, Mom pressured us into observing her favourite Icelandic custom, opening our presents on Christmas Eve after the midnight service. Every year, she had great hopes that we would sleep in and not be excitedly rampaging around the house at four in the morning. For us, it was a thrill to stay up and rip into pretty packages, but then in the morning, when we had nothing more to unwrap, it was a bit of a let-down. 

Kids! Always wanting more.

Bralorne BC United Church 

Our presents were warm clothes and skis. Books and hobby items, like a wood-burning set for my second-oldest sister, Joann. Stuffed animals and dolls when we were younger. A wooden bed for a new doll. It was handmade and painted bright blue by Dad. A big candy cane, nuts in their shells, and a juicy Japanese orange stuffed into one of  Dad's woolen work socks; the same woolen socks that were pressed into service when we had a cold. Our necks and chests would be smeared with stinky Vicks VapoRub and Dad's sock wrapped around our throats, then pinned in place with a huge safety pin. 

One year, when I was about four, Mom and Dad ordered a red tricycle through the Sears Christmas catalogue. Our parents were out at an adult Christmas party, and our two teenage sisters were either working or visiting their friends. My third sister, Judith, who was about ten at the time, and I were home alone. It was the early 1950s, and it wasn't a big deal to leave your elementary-aged kid in charge of a preschooler. 

Judith found the shipping box and insisted on assembling the trike. We played with it for an hour or two, then she took it apart and put it back in the box. Judith swore me to secrecy. "I'll pound you if you blab," she threatened as older siblings tend to do. On Christmas morning, our unsuspecting dad spent a bit of time putting my new tricycle together - again.

 Christmas morning, before being sent to play outside, we had a big breakfast, hearty enough to keep us away from the kitchen until later in the day. Mom wasn't an enthusiastic cook most days, but she really put her heart into the special family dinners. Christmas dinner was centred around the biggest damn turkey she could find, and served with baked sweet potatoes, mashed white potatoes, cauliflower with cheese sauce, Brussels sprouts, peas, gravy, cranberry sauce, olives, celery pieces filled with Cheese-Whiz, and pickles. Everyone, kids included, was served a tiny glass of Sandeman's Port in celebration of the holiday.

Mom may not have liked cooking, but she loved to bake. She typically started the Christmas baking in mid-October. Her Christmas cakes were weighty, twenty-five pounds of dried fruit for eight cakes, and took up to ten hours to bake in a slow oven. I remember her staying up all night, checking the oven every hour, and pulling out the smallest cakes in the middle of the night; the bigger ones weren't ready until breakfast time the next morning. In later years, as her four daughters married, her Christmas cake recipe was used for our wedding cakes. 

Mom making her fruit cakes for a wedding

Her other speciality was the traditional Icelandic vinartera, a seven-layer torte, always seven layers, not more, not less. Each layer was slathered with a concoction of cooked dates, butter, and vanilla. Mom preferred to use the more expensive dates instead of stewed prunes, and round pans instead of square. She would wrap the layered cakes in tin foil and hide them in a dark, cool place until Christmas Eve. Then, Mom would carefully unwrap one cake and generously ice the top and sides and liberally sprinkle it with cinnamon. Vinartera is a rich, filling dessert that keeps for many months. It was a family source of amusement that Mom would make enough vinartera to last into spring, plus shortbread, sugar cookies, snowballs, and squares, but we weren't allowed to touch any of it until Christmas Eve. 

Does that sound familiar? Did your Mom or Grandmother do the same? Hoard the goodies, then put the entire family into a near-diabetic coma with a holiday overload of sugar and calories? 

Merry Christmas, everyone! Here's to a happier and healthier 2021!

Cheers, Lynda and The Sparkinator

Murder and mayhem. Revenge and romance, 

Isla Mujeres Mysteries

featuring Sparky, the pure-bred, Mexican-low-rider-beach-mutt.  

Click on the link below to grab your copy today!

Isla Mujeres Mysteries

The second anniversary - Widowhood 101

In Paris, 2012

It has been a rough few days leading up to September 3rd, the second anniversary of Lawrie's passing. My emotions have been like a ride on a soon-to-be-condemned roller-coaster. Up, and down, and slamming sideways around the corners.

Over the past two years, I have made some progress in managing my grief, although the special occasions continue to be a problem. Halloween was our favourite fun celebration, and Christmas. Other dates, such as the anniversary of when we moved in together, our wedding anniversary, my birthday, and Lawrie's birthday, continue to haunt me. 

San Miquel de Allende

I also made some life-changing decisions this past year. First, I sold our home on Isla Mujeres to a very nice couple from Wisconsin. Then, Sparky and I moved to San Miguel de Allende in December 2019. San Miguel is a beautiful colonial city in the mountains north of Mexico City. It is a paradise for writers, artists, and historians. I thoroughly enjoyed exploring my new surroundings, camera in hand, for hours at a time. It seemed to be the perfect place for me to heal. 

But the world had other plans. COVID-19 arrived in North America, creating economic and emotional hardship for millions. As a new arrival to San Miguel de Allende, and without a strong support base like I had on Isla Mujeres, things could get a bit tough. So, I packed up my few belongings and returned to Canada on March 20th.

For five weeks, my best friends since elementary school days, let Sparky and me live at their house in the Vancouver area. Their two doggies played with Sparky, while the three humans tried to remain sane during the lockdown. We entertained ourselves with good food, wine, and numerous 'remember when' stories from our high school days.

Fortunately, son John and his family live nearby, and I was able to sneak in a few visits during the lockdown, and more regularly since the rules have loosened up a little. It's fun to spend a bit of time with an adult granddaughter and two grandsons. Where have the years gone?

Naramata Bench, Okanagan, BC.

In late April, I decided to move to the Okanagan Valley in British Columbia, where we had lived for many years before moving to Isla Mujeres. It's peaceful and beautiful here. Vineyards. Orchards. Lakes. Rivers. And people who remember both Lawrie and me. The transition was easier, and my heart has been slowly mending. I am finally able to savour a cup of coffee on my own and listen to music without turning into a mess. 

In the meantime, I kept writing and self-published three more novels: Temptation Isla, Terror Isla, and Twisted Isla. I am now working on the next idea. Writing keeps me from endlessly obsessing over my loss.

But then something happens, and my emotions run amok again.

A very nice man, whom I only knew tangentially, recently died from a rare bone cancer. He and his wife were happy together for twenty-one years, and now she is a widow. Her grief has sharpened my grief.

And, more recently young woman that Lawrie worked with years ago at Magnum's Restaurant in Penticton wrote to tell me of her chance encounter with him in April 2018 at the Penticton Regional Hospital. 

We had returned to Canada to double-check the medical diagnosis, and the specialist had just informed Lawrie that he had only a few months to live. The young woman was on her way to visit a family member in the hospital and accidentally got off on the wrong floor. She didn't know we were in Canada, or that Lawrie was sick. When she saw him, she stopped to chat, and he told her why he was there, sitting in the hallway of the hospital, contemplating life.  

This is part of her email to me, "When we were finishing up the conversation, I asked the woman at the desk where the room I was looking for was, and she told me I was on the wrong floor.

Lawrie and I just looked at each other. I said, "Well, I guess that it was meant to be."

He said, "Life's funny like that, isn't it?"

Had I not followed another nurse off the elevator that day, I would've never seen him or known he was ill. I was so unbelievably grateful for that serendipitous moment."

The young woman went on to tell me of the good memories she had of Lawrie as her boss and her friend. How he had been a strong and positive influence on her life. Lawrie told her that he had had a very full life and had no regrets, and how much he loved me. Stories like this are treasures.

My Widowhood 101 posts have connected me with others who are also suffering and just want to chat. It's good to talk and not keep the pain bottled up inside.

The downside is, my frankness rips open the partially healed wounds of others who love Lawrie and miss him.

It's difficult.

Lynda

Sparky and Lawrie, Isla Mujeres Mexico

Isla Mysteries 1-5 recommended for travelers and mystery lovers!

Mikel Miller rated it: really liked it

Recommends it for: travelers, mystery lovers

If you can’t get away to a tiny island in the Caribbean, reading books set on the island is the next best thing. Here’s a Kindle boxed set of five books describing life on Isla Mujeres off the Yucatan peninsula and also providing some good mystery stories.

Tropical paradise? Check.
Pirates and buried treasure? Check.
Two 30-ish women looking for the treasure while being shadowed by mysterious men? Check.
Island men coming to the aid of the two damsels in distress? Check.
Romance? Check, check.
A loveable stray dog that helps solve the mysteries? Check.
A happy ending? Of course.

The five books are the work of Canadian author Lynda L. Lock, who retired to the island with her husband and began publishing the series in 2016. 

As a first-time novelist, her plots and character development improved with each book. One thing that remained constant throughout the series was her attention to detail in describing places and people and events, and customs on the island.

If you close your eyes and let your mind wander, you can imagine being there with her characters on the soft sand and in the small beach restaurant where the two women work shifts. 

Overall, it’s easy reading and will make you look forward to her next book. I am. 

Isla Mujeres Mystery

Anticipated launch date for Twisted Isla is May 2020 

Travellin’ to paradise, past and present, Isla Mujeres Mexico

UltraMar at Puerto Juarez on the mainland

Living on an island in the Caribbean Sea, there is only one way to get there – by boat. Be it a passenger vessel, car ferry, or private yacht, we all have to cross the water. Okay, one or two lucky people have small private planes that are permitted to land on the seldom-used, almost-defunct airport. But the rest of us peasants cross by boat; big boats, little boats, private boats, or commuter boats.

Ultramar boats are getting bigger all the time. 

Every couple of years, we see a new addition to the fleet of passenger ferries bringing people to this little piece of paradise. 

The vessels are getting bigger and bigger to accommodate the increase in visitors. 

The newest multi-level arrival can transport 650 visitors to Isla Mujeres with each sailing.

Posted on Recuerdos de Isla Mujeres!

Before the UltraMar started business, the only passenger service to the island was provided by Ausencio Magaña and his family members. Their fleet included the La Carmita, a banana-shaped boat that rolled and wallowed in the seas, creating havoc with the tender stomachs of landlubbers and tourists. The preferred place for locals to ride was in the stern, well away from any seasick travelers. 

2002 Caribbean Miss

The next Magaña ship was La Novia del Mar, and then the popular La Sultana del Mar. A fourth boat, La Dama Elegante, was equipped with a six-foot (2 metres) by two-foot (60 cm) glass insert for viewing the sea life. A sunken shrimp boat, the Blanca Beatriz, was rescued from near Isla Contoy and refurbished. Although that vessel was primarily reserved for circumnavigating the island with sightseers.  

In 2002, our first trip to Isla was on the Caribbean Miss owned by the Magaña family.  

This modest craft held forty people and a bit of cargo. I have never been sea-sick, but the combined diesel fuel vapours and the slight rolling motion pushed my tolerance to the limit.  

2005 UltraMar passenger ferry

When we returned in 2005, the first UltraMar catamaran was in service with interior seating for sixty people.

2009 saw the arrival of a larger catamaran for UltraMar with upper deck seating and a capacity of 200 passengers. 

Three larger boats holding up to 265 people arrived in 2011 with flashy blue underwater LEDS lighting up the nighttime crossings.

Flashy underwater LEDs on the UltraMar boat

Still not enough to deal with the thousands of visitors, UltraMar put a ship called the Bo Hengy into service for a short time. The company didn’t even have time to paint the new boat in the distinctive blue and yellow corporate colours before it was put to use.

Spring break for many schools in Canada, the USA, and Mexico is coming soon. The lineups will be huge, but with the new, larger ships in service, hopefully traveling back and forth to the mainland won’t be a problem.

Although if you live on the island, hiding out at home is the best solution during the crazy time of year. When you have sand, sun, margaritas, and cold beer all within easy reach, there is no need to leave home.

Hasta Luego, Lynda, Lawrie, and Sparky

Murder and mayhem. 

Revenge and romance.

Isla Mujeres Mystery series

Carnaval! A picture is worth a thousand words

It's Carnaval 2016, starting Friday, February 5th.   

It is one of our favourite times of the year! We are too busy having fun right now to be creative with words. So many photos of fun times, we decided just to post pictures from previous years. Enjoy! 

Grab your camera and get out there to enjoy the 5-day event.  

Cheers

Lynda, Lawrie, Sparky, and Thomas the Cat