Welcome to Help From My Friends Friday. Today, I’m honored to have Author Debra Bokur as my guest. I met Debra in Sisters in Crime Colorado’s Book Club a few weeks ago. She was anxiously preparing for a book launch, and that of course intrigued me. But she and her husband were also renovating an old home. I begged her to tell us about that, and she did. Please welcome, Debra Bokur ~ Donnell
Author Debra Bokur
My husband James is an exceptional human being (and a great cook), but when he came home on a freezing winter night two years ago and announced that he’d placed an auction bid for an abandoned Victorian-era inn in a tiny coastal Maine town, I seriously considered returning him in his original packaging (which I’ve kept, just in case) and replacing him with another cat.
Ignoring that I’ve been asking for a vintage Aston Martin, not an inn, for at least the past two decades, James tried to play off the auction as a surprise gift for me. He’d clearly thought this through, explaining it was all part of a grand scheme to provide us with retirement income and a place near the ocean where I could revisit my New England roots—and write more mysteries while the sea air wafted inspiringly about my desk.
That all sounded… okay, but would take some adjusting. Living at 8,600 feet in Colorado for the past almost-thirty years had made me a mountain girl, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about living—even for just a few months each year—on the coast again. Mosquitos and humidity, for starters; though the prospect of unlimited fresh seafood was appealing.
There were other pluses, as well. Having run a small rental property in Colorado for a number of years, I already knew I loved making people comfortable and cozy. The idea of welcoming guests to an historic inn for the short summer tourist and birdwatching season began to grow on me.
On weekends, I could offer creative retreats, hosting visiting authors, artists, musicians, or chefs at the property. Guests and community members would have an opportunity to workshop with them, listen to readings, or interact in some other meaningful way. And I could help boost the visibility of all my creative friends.
Plus, a Victorian inn, right? We won the auction, and when we looked through the documents we’d inherited through the purchase, it turned out that the inn—originally opened around 1860—was on a piece of property abutting the farm where Samuel Longfellow had once resided. Sam, a pastor and composer of hymns, was the brother of poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. In a bit of (perhaps forced) synergy, one of my late, beloved cats was named Henry Wadsworth Grayfellow, so it seemed like a sign that the whole thing was meant to be.
James went to Maine to finalize everything, but when he returned to Colorado, he was a little cagey when I grilled him on the details. How many tubs? Did the ceilings soar? Was there a garden? His answers (a few, not exactly, and he wasn’t sure) weren’t very reassuring.
If I’d been paying more attention, I would have seen the flags, but the truth
is I wasn’t paying much attention at all. I had a stubborn, aging mother with mobility issues refusing help, a book deadline pressing down on both shoulders, and my only child moving out of the country. If I thought about the inn at all, it was to muse romantically over the possibility that wild bluebells were growing unchecked across the lawn.
It was time to see. James went ahead and met me at the airport in Bangor. During the hour-plus drive to the inn, he was uncharacteristically quiet. By the time we arrived at the small town that was our destination, he’d developed a nervous tick beside his right eye. It’s his tell. I started to worry.
Then we pulled into the driveway. A crumbling, yellow two-story Victorian building with dormers rose from an overgrown lawn. The front porch, with its lovely carved columns, sagged. The rail was broken in multiple places. Behind it was an old carriage house—also yellow, and also crumbling. The buildings looked sad and abandoned. The tall grass was unruly, and filled with weeds. And something else: bluebells.
I headed for the back door. Inside, there was a staggering amount of accumulated mold damage. There wasn’t a single level floor, and the drooping, torn wallpaper had streaks of black from the insidious mold. There was no kitchen, though there were beautiful (moldy) cabinets stacked against one wall, an old fireplace, charming light fixtures, and magical corners everywhere I turned. Despite the general state of affairs, I fell immediately, head-over-heels in love with the old house.
It’s been two years since we began working on it. It may take another two, but the work is oddly satisfying. The mold is gone, and the floors are (mostly) level. There’s a brand new roof, and cedar shingle siding. Our cats are obsessed with something upstairs that darts like a shadow across the hallway at times, and looks eerily like a small gray cat. We call him Sam, and like knowing that he’s there.
A half dozen times while we’ve been working alone in the kitchen (with the windows closed) we’ve each heard a cheerful woman’s voice say “hello” and “good morning.” The voice seems to come from the area where we removed an old stove. A woman from the community stopped by just before we left from our last visit, and introduced herself as someone who had grown up in the house. She told us she’d lived there with her grandmother, who had loved the house, and who had lived there until she’d passed away. Her granddaughter thanked us for restoring the property—adding that the kitchen, where we hear the voice, was a special place to her grandmother, who had infused everything she made with joy, and who’d loved to share her baked goods with her friends and neighbors.
We didn’t tell our visitor about the voice we hear. But now, we say hello to
the friendly ghost, and tell her that we’ve met her granddaughter.
During visits, while I strip old wallpaper and sand the original, impossibly thick wood floors, I dream of tea services and new linens. The work is a moving meditation, freeing my mind to wrestle with the plot lines for my next book, and to contemplate a brand new series. It’s going to be set in an old inn on the coast of Maine. It may have a pleasant ghost, and be timed for a future when the inn will once again be filled with light and love. And mystery, of course.
About Debra Bokur’s New Book: 
The Bone Field (Dark Paradise Mystery #2)
Kali Māhoe, Hawaiian cultural expert and detective with the Maui Police Department, has been called to a bizarre crime scene. In the recesses of a deep trench on Lana’i Island, a derelict refrigerator has been unearthed. Entombed inside are the skeletal remains of someone buried decades ago. Identification is a challenge. The body is headless, the skull replaced with a chilling adornment: a large, ornately carved wooden pineapple.
The old field soon yields more long-buried secrets, and Kali is led along an increasingly winding path that brings to light an unlikely suspect, an illegal cock-fighting organization, and a strange symbol connected to a long-disbanded religious cult. Her task is to dispel the dark shadows lingering over the Palawai Basin plains, and to solve a puzzle that no one wants exposed by the bright, hot tropical light.
To discover the answer, Kali will be drawn deeper in the mysteries of the island’s ancient legends—stories that tell of an enraged rooster god and man-eating monsters. For Kali, a detective of sound logic and reason, it’s not easy to consider the unknown for explanations for what appears to be a series of illogical links in a twisting chain of deadly events. Or safe. Because the dormant pineapple fields of Lana’i have yet to give up their darkest and most terrifying secrets.
“Wonderfully atmospheric…immersive, thoroughly researched tale of mystery and mythology that will enlighten as well as entertain.” – Criminal Element
“Nimbly contrasts the Hawaii of sun and golden beaches with its less well-known underbelly of poverty, discrimination, and crime. Fans of strong female cops will look forward to Kali’s further adventures.” —Publishers Weekly
About the author: Debra Bokur can only sing the low bits, drinks too much tea, and gets lost deliberately. An award-winning writer and journalist, she’s the author of the Dark Paradise Mysteries series from Kensington: The Fire Thief, The Bone Field and The Lava Witch (Spring 2021). Her articles, short fiction and poetry have been widely published. She was an editor at Many Mountains Moving literary journal, is a contributing author to Spreading the Word: Editors on Poetry (The Bench Press, 2001), and has been an editor and writer at multiple national publications including Global Traveler Magazine, where she continues to contribute a monthly column. She divides her time between Colorado and Maine. https://www.debrabokur.com/
Debra, I am so excited one about The Bone Field, and about the possibility of your B&B. I can picture a writing retreat here, easily. I hope to say good morning to your ghost. Thanks for being my guest today, and best wishes.
What an amazing story! Can’t wait to get to Maine, stay in the inn and read Debra’s mysteries!
Loved reading about your new life adventure. Your hard work will pay off. And congratulations on your book. Life is amazing.
Debra, I love this story. So exciting! I think one day I would like to go out and visit your inn. 🙂
I’m with Donnell. A writing retreat when it’s finished. I sounds charming. I’m not familiar with Debra’s books, but it looks like this one will be on my TBR pile soon.
Great story. I look forward to reading your books.
Thanks for reading, everyone! Next project at the inn is to restore the front porch and move the steps back into their original position in the front, then try to accomplish some landscaping before autumn. We have a FB page about the reno progress (or lack thereof): Hope to be welcoming people by this time next year!
The work involved must be overwhelming at times but what a great project. And, I love the ghost. Such an invite to an old and historic building with the oven close at hand. Good luck. Keep the ghost around.
You jad me at bluebells! Can’t wait for the writers retreat!
Amazing story, thank you for sharing, Debra. I’d love to be a guest when you open- I spent 25 years of vacations (summer and winter) in a tiny burb called Bridgton (near North Conway, NH border) and I love ME with all my heart. (Heahht.)
😉
What a delightful tale of the inn in Maine. Having spent my later schools years in the state, I love to go back. Just might have to check the inn out sometime when it opens (let us know the name and location). Writers’ retreat sounds delightful.
Okay! Sign me up for the first writers retreat!!
I enjoyed this so much. Looking forward to reading Debra’s work, and of course staying at the inn. I hope Debra and James can accommodate all of us!