RACING FROM DEATH AT COLONIAL DOWNS

I studied the middle–aged New Kent County Sheriff on duty at Colonial Downs racetrack on June 23, 2012. 

Taser Gun 

Holstered on his wide leather belt were both a Taser and a handgun. Additionally, he carried a flashlight, a baton, keys, and two radios that were connected by spiral cords to the mikes that sat on each of his shoulders. And that’s what I could identify. 


How did he walk around with all that stuff?


Being a mystery author and a busybody, I had to ask him how much his belt weighed.


 “Eighteen pounds.” He said, shaking his head.  “But you should see some of the young bloods. You wouldn’t believe the stuff they carry around.” He told me one of the two radios was for the sheriff’s department, the other for the racetrack.


I was stuck at my desk outside the track’s gift shop hawking copies of my published mysteries. With the downturn in the economy, the crowd was sparser than the last time I’d been there. I spent time talking to three different sheriffs on duty that night and got a whole new perspective on the mortgage foreclosure disaster. New Kent County has not been exempt.


When I picture a mortgage foreclosure, I see the mean bank and the mean law officer evicting people from their only homes. But Saturday night, a sheriff I talked to turned the mental image around. He said, “I’ve been a law officer for thirty-something years and the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do is enforce a foreclosure.”


He told me about an old woman who had just gotten out of the hospital the day before. “She still had bandages on her arm,” he said. “And I had to evict her.” 


The pain from the memory twisted his face. He closed his eyes as if trying to push it away.


“It’s like war,” I said, “when you’re supposed to shoot someone you don’t even know.”


He stared at me. I decided it was time to step away from the abyss and sell a book. 

Sasscer Hill outside the Colonial Downs Gift Shop

“Hey, do you read mysteries,” I called out to a woman who’d just come through the main entrance and was clutching a free cupcake voucher.


“Not really,” she said. “But do you know where they have the cupcakes?”


I manned my book table from six to ten-thirty that night. When you do a book signing, you become the information center. You tell people where the bathrooms are, where to get their free cupcake, where to buy a program, and how to reach the bar. Being Ladies Night, the gals not only got the cupcake, they got in for free, too. 


That night, the Thoroughbred Racing Foundation was hosting a retired race-mare beauty contest.  The horses in this competition came from the James River Foundation, a correctional center where retired race horses get to live out their days and prisoners get to work with horses while searching for that second chance. The offenders in this correctional program have an unusually high success rate for staying out of the prison system.  


The TRF vanned in three plump, groomed, and shiny mares and paraded them in front of the grandstand after the second race. People filled out their choice that evening and voted, placing their picks in a box. Since I was sitting right next to it, it occurred to me it would be easy to stuff the ballot box. Except the  sheriff was there. Besides, no one tried to bribe me. 


Colonial also sponsored “The Race to the Alter,” where engaged couples competed for an all expense paid July wedding at the track. Additionally, Colonial put on an all female jockey race that evening, and, of course, the amazing author Sasscer Hill was there signing her horse racing mystery novels.

Kim Loftus and Chris Chappell from Virginia Beach, pictured with Chris’ daughter.

"Lite 98's radio host, Shelly Perkins, was the emcee for the evening. Over the sound system, I heard her announce the entrants to the “Race to the Altar.” Later, Kim Loftus and Chris Chappell from Virginia Beach won the race to the Alter which included the facility, the gown, the cake, the food, the champagne, the pictures and the limo!



 The hands down winner of the beauty pageant was a chestnut mare named Skittles. The seven-year-old mare never hit the board in nine lifetime starts, but Saturday night, she wore a garland of roses in the winner’s circle and received a year’s supply of carrots from Whole Foods.

After they finished parading the mares, Colonial’s director-of-marketing, Darrell Wood, stopped by and told me I had a fast date with a microphone on the Jumbotron.


“You’ll be interviewed by radio host, Shelly Perkins,” he said. “Right after the fifth race.”


Two years ago, when I knew I would have to go on the air in front of the entire grandstand, I got quite nervous. Last Saturday, I didn’t. I got hungry, ate an entire order of french fries, and bought a Makers Mark and ginger ale. I nursed my way through half the Maker’s Mark, consuming enough for a buzz of bravery, but not enough to spoil the show. Then it was time to walk down to the racetrack circle and get ready to go on the air.

Sasscer meets Shelly

I was introduced to radio host Shelly Perkins, who held a cheat sheet that did not include the name of my new novel. She also wanted to pronounce my name as “Sow sir.” I told her to pronounce it like she was telling someone not to “sass her.” 


She said, “Okay. When we go on, you will tell me a little about your book.” 


I froze. I hadn’t even thought about talking about my book. Where was my head? So I did a very fast mental repeat of my novel's elevator pitch, letting it rise to the top of my brain until it was as big and clear as a billboard. 


While I did this, the fifth race ran. After the field galloped out, the winner, ridden by Horatio Karamanos, came into the winner’s circle and we all moved out of the way for the win picture. Afterwards, I ended up standing next to Karamanos as he stood on the scales to weigh in.

Horatio Karamanos rides in the winner, Little Piasano

For me, an amazing coincidence as a fictional character named Eduardo Carmanos, based loosely on the real Karamanos, features largely in the novel “Racing from Death.” 

Karamanos (red cap) on the weight scale standing next to Sasscer (turquoise)

Carmanos has an even bigger role in the just finished manuscript, “The Sea Horse Trade.” When you read, “Racing from Death,” you will race with Nikki in a Colonial Downs turf stake where the fictional character, jockey Carmanos, blocks and stops Nikki’s horse three times, trying to keep Nikki from winning. Those that have read the book tell me they felt like they were there on the track, grinding it out to the wire – that they couldn’t put the book down.

Suddenly, Shelly Perkins motioned me to join her, the camera guy stood in front of us, and did a finger count down from five to one, and the light on his camera went red.


I managed not to screw up, and finished by telling the crowd "Racing from Death" features young jockey Nikki Latrelle who tangles with a murdering sociopath who is selling diet cocktails to jockeys who struggle to maintain racing weight. 


Shelly said, "Gee, I'm glad that's fiction!" 


I had to laugh.  

HORSE OF THE DELAWARE VALLEY Reviews "Racing from Death."

Following review appears in April 12 issue of “Horse of the Delaware Valley.” http://www.horsedelval.com/

Sex, betrayal, murder propel new race track thriller from author Sasscer Hill
By MARTHA BARBONE

Author Sasscer Hill has hit her stride with her second, and hopefully one of many more, race track mysteries, ‘Racing from Death’.

Jockey and assistant trainer, Nikki Latrelle, who readers first met in Hill’s Full Mortality, is charged with the responsibility to take a load of Virginia-breds from Laurel Park in Maryland to Colonial Downs near Richmond for six weeks, where owners would get 50-percent on top of purse money for Virginia- breds.

Before loading up the van, Latrelle had already stumbled on the beginning of what would become an adrenaline rushing stay when a fellow jock died suddenly from designer weight-loss drugs.

At the funeral of Paco Martinez, the victim of the lethal concoction, Latrelle is approached by a stranger, Jay Cormack, an agent with the Operations and Enforcement arm of the Virginia Racing Commission, who asked her to be his eyes and ears on the backstretch in his investigation into illegal drugs.

At first she refused, but as events unfolded she was drawn in despite her misgivings.

Latrelle attracts danger like a magnet, and from the minute she and her friend and exercise rider, Lorna Doone, who had overcome her own drug demons, arrived at their assigned stabling, far on the backside near dense woods, the story takes the first of many plot twists when a strange man emerges, moaning, from the pines dragging a shovel saying, “Everybody knows, but they won’t tell.”

Driven off by Latrelle, Doone and the groom, Ramon, the man shuffles away, and, when the horses are settled in, the women leave to go to the rental cottage where they will be staying, only to be confronted by still more mystery and danger.

Racing from Death has all the elements of a compelling read, sex, betrayal, racing, danger and ultimately murder. Colorful characters abound, including an exotic and temperamental owner who was once a super-model and who is involved romantically with one of the prime suspects.

The mystic, Mello, who appeared in Full Mortality, arrives to soothe Latrelle's own horse, a filly so talented but equally unmanageable that she is nicknamed ‘Hellish’. Latrelle encounters some of the most unsavory gang members in the heart of their headquarters, a meth lab, to ever disgrace the pages of a novel where she barely escapes with her life.

Racing from Death, available at Amazon.com for $7.94, is a pageturner that does not disappoint.
Copyright © 2012 The Horse of Delaware Valley 03/16/2012

Three of Five Best First Agatha Finalists Who Didn't Win The Award

Laura Alden, Alan Orloff, and Sasscer Hill upon realizing they did not win the Agatha. Rumor has it that Amanda Flower, who could not be found for this picture, may have thrown herself from the Hyatt Regency roof.  But that is mere speculation and probably not true.


Fortunately, my old pal, award winning writer Vinny O'Neil found me wallowing in self pity, slapped me around a bit, and straightened me right out.

"You're a finalist in the Best First Agatha Award!" he said.  "Get a grip. Since when did the best book always win?  Get over it. Give me a thumbs up!"

So I did.

When a former Army Ranger says give me a thumbs up, I do.

But all was not lost.  I got to meet Sue Grafton and give her a tip for the Derby. I had lunch with the best selling author whose books I devour like chocolate, Julie Smith.

Above: Sasscer Hill, three time Agatha nominee Elizabeth Zelvin, and NY Times best selling author Julie Smith. Below, Julie Smith and Sue Grafton providing the audience with a fabulous and humorous interview near the end of the Malice convention.

  

Above: At last Sasscer Hill meets her idol, New York Times Best Seller and winner of every mystery award known to man, Sue Grafton!

What an eloquent speaker Sue Grafton is.  She talks as good as she writes, and that's saying something!

Sasscer Hill at Best First panel between finalists Amanda Flower and Alan Orloff


Below, in white jacket, the Winner of the Best First Agatha Award: Avery Aames. Congratulations Avery!

Avery Aames and Sasscer Hill

FROZEN IN TIMONIUM: An Author’s Recent Book Signing Experience

When I arrived in Timonium on Thursday afternoon for the Maryland Horse World Expo, the thermometer had dipped well below freezing, the forecast called for snow, and I was battling a nasty cold virus.   
In the lobby of my motel, the desk clerk watched me roll my suitcase up to the counter, where I’d reserved a room for the expo book signing of my novel, “Full Mortality.”
When I reached the counter, I didn’t like the expression on the clerk’s face.
“Our computers are down,” she said.“I can’t check you in.  You could try coming back in about four hours.”
I forced a smile, shrugged, and headed for the “Cow Palace” exhibit hall at the Maryland State Fairgrounds where, on Friday,  I would share part of a booth with a jewelry seller named Lynne Shpak.  Outside the state fair buildings, cars, trucks, horse trailers and expo attendees mobbed the parking lot. People mostly had their heads down, trailing white breath as they hurried to get indoors. 

    Inside, I found Lynne’s booth and was happy with the small spot she’d assigned me on an aisle near the entrance. Not so happy about the set of eight fire doors facing my table only twenty feet away.  Daylight showed plainly between each set of doors and through gaps at the bottom. My feet froze at the sight.
Suck it up, Sasscer.  How bad could it be? 
        After successfully checking into my hotel room that night, I crashed.  Friday morning, I peeked through the curtains and discovered both the parking lot and my car were covered in about two inches of snow and ice. It could be worse, I told myself. 
I put my outer-gear on over my pajamas and went out to warm up the car, only the doors were frozen shut.  With temperatures in the teens, I pounded with the sides of my fists until I broke the ice seal on one rear door, and yanked it open. Crawling inside, I poured myself upside down from the back seat into the front seat, twisted upright, and started the car.  After hammering the driver door open from the inside with my feet, I left the car idling, fans and heaters at full blast, white exhaust pluming in the frigid air. 
Back in my room, I loaded up on hot coffee, warm clothes and makeup, then proceeded to back my old Lincoln into a hydrant the Fire Department had thoughtfully left jutting out on a concrete peninsula. The hydrant looked okay, so I kept driving. 
After parking at the Horse Expo, I opened the trunk of my car and an avalanche of snow fell through the crack between the rear window and the open trunk lid. The whole mess landed on my open box of my books, and I might have used a bad word.  
Fortunately, it was so cold, the ice didn't melt onto the book covers. Using a towel, I dusted the crystals from each book, then dragged the carton and other supplies into the Cow Palace. After two hours, I’d sold one novel and was ready to commit bookacide. Hawking my book caused a sore throat, and my cold was blossoming like deadly nightshade. 
Though freezing, our booth location received plenty of traffic and sales picked up later that day. Two expo booksellers even agreed to buy copies of FULL MORTALITY and added the novel to their book shelves.  
The wind howled most of Friday, January 21, and sucked the heat from the overhead space heaters out through the fire doors, simultaneously pulling the biting cold in. The draft pierced my snow boots and gnawed at my feet. It could only get better right?
Saturday morning a large water main in Timonium burst, and at noon, the city shut off the water supply to the fair grounds. There were hundreds of horses at the expo, tons of people, food services and toilets that no longer worked.  
Water was trucked in for the horses, and rollbacks brought in a load of Porta Potties and dumped them outside the Cow Palace. By the time I used one, it was nineteen degrees outside, dark and the “potty” so dimly lit inside that I repeatedly bumped against the little plastic urinal sticking out on the side. This made me want a bath, but, of course, there was no water.
An additional problem I call “Firedoor Woman,” liked to use the big emergency-exit-only doors every time she snuck a cigarette. 
When I’d see her ready to bust out, I’d yell, “Don’t open those doors!” 
She ignored me totally, but the cold she let in didn’t ignore me at all. Previously suicidal feelings turned homicidal, but I restrained myself throughout the rest of Friday.
In my room that night, I carefully set a combination on the room safe, made sure it worked and locked my jewelry inside.   
        Saturday morning the combination wouldn’t work, and I had to wait for a maintenance man to unlock the safe. It only took him five seconds to open up, and my new plan is to hide the valuables safely beneath the mattress.
At the fair grounds, life improved.  The  water was on, and I had a serious talk with Firedoor Woman. Finding her in her booth, I said, “Are you the person who keeps darting out the fire doors?”  
“Yeah,” she said, not looking at me. 
Voice calm, I explained to her that it was cold outside and that it might be a good idea to use the main entrance doors instead.  I was spoiling for a fight, and she knew it. Though she refused to look me in the eye, she never busted out the fire doors again. At least not while I was there.
Later, a gal named Paige came by the booth to tell me she’d read FULL MORTALITY last summer, that she’d loved it, and couldn’t wait for the next in the series to come out. Moments like this keep me going against all odds.

Another gal stopped by with a Pomeranian she’d rescued.  When she let me hold the little dog, the day warmed up even more.  Later, I visited a man who hand-rolled roasted almonds into a hot butter and sugar sauce.  Yum, life is good.
By five on Saturday, I’d sold forty-seven books, met a lot of really nice people, and was beyond ready to head home.  I trucked everything out to the car only to discover someone had blocked me in.
In the end, I got home safely without committing a crime against the obstructive car owner, and finally got up the nerve to examine my car for fire hydrant damage. Wow! Just a smidgeon of red paint on the bumper. It could have been worse, right?

GOING TO CALIFORNIA

On October 13, I fly to San Francisco for the huge Bouchercon Mystery Writers conference with its cornucopia of best selling and seasoned authors. These pros write for big New York publishers like Random House, Simon and Schuster, Penguin, and St. Martin’s Press. Most of these authors have multiple books out and large followings of fans. Their books are available in hard bound copies, followed a year later by massive print runs of paper editions.

Then there is me, Sasscer Hill, published by the small Rockville, Maryland outfit, Wildside Press. Nobody, has ever heard of Sasscer Hill or her first book, FULL MORTALITY, a trade-paperback horse-racing mystery.

In my heart I hear the acoustic guitar of Jimmy Page, the magical voice of Robert Plant and the lyrics of Led Zeppelin’s 1971 classic, “Going to California.”





Broken pieces of the lyrics play in my head as I plan my trip -- words like, “Took my chances on a big jet plane . . .”

The dreamlike, taking-risks quality of this song resonates with me, a new author traveling to the big time with her paperback book in hand. Since I’m with a small press with a no-returns policy, none of the booksellers at the conference will take a chance by pre ordering the book to sell at the convention. I’m forced to pack books in my suitcase and hope I can sell them on consignment.

If I’m lucky enough to get a signing through a convention bookseller, no doubt I’ll be in the same room at the same time, with the likes of Michael Connelly, Robert Crais and the ghost of Stieg Larsson. I hear Led Zeppelin again . . . “I might be sinking. Throw me a line. If I reach it time . . .”

I’m trying hard to get on a panel at Bouchercon, but the competition for these slots is immense. Did I tell you I am an unknown? My book comes out officially on October 15, right smack in the middle of this conference. If I had some cash, I would host a small party to celebrate the launch of FULL MORTALITY, to let folks know it is available in book stores and as a download on Kindle and Ipad. But there is no cash. When I think like this, Robert Plant is singing, “Standing on a hill in my mountain of dreams, telling myself It’s not as hard, hard – hard as it seems.”

Still, I can do this! I’m a darn good writer, my book is better than average, and I will make friends out there. I will tell myself it’s no big deal. I will follow my heart and chase my dream.