Author of Mrs. Holmes: Murder, Kidnap and the True Story of an Extraordinary Lady Detective (Amberley, 2017).
Brad Ricca
I wrote this entire book while staying at home to take care of my infant son. I was able to stay home with my four-month old James and give all the bottles, change the diapers, and make the funny faces. And when he slept, write Mrs. Holmes. I was going to dedicate the book to him, but I’ll wait until he can, you know, actually read.
I once hid something in the Sherlock Holmes museum at 221B Baker Street in London. This was P.C. (pre-Cumberbatch), so the museum was utterly empty and there was only one worker there. She took my photo as I sat in the chair. I didn’t steal anything, but I left something there. I don’t know why – I wasn’t trying to be an arrogant American. I just love the Holmes stories so much, I wanted to leave something in tribute. I’m not sure if it’s still there.
I hate true crime books. HATE THEM. I used to work in a bookstore after college and I would take long detours just to avoid the section. All those black-and-red covers with creepy men staring out. I didn’t get it. At the same time, I realized, years later, that it is, or could be, the most real kind of writing there is. I hate it because I wish it didn’t exist. But it does.
The case that grabbed me the most about Grace Humiston, Mrs. Holmes, is when she took a missing persons case in New York City – and followed the trail all the way down to Florida by dressing in disguise as a poor woman selling scissors. There, Grace uncovered a secret turpentine camp of working slaves – forty years after the Civil War. This woman’s tenacity was extraordinary. And there are dozens of such cases. She embodies the cliché of “you can’t make this stuff up.”
My favorite novel is Wuthering Heights. You think it’s one thing, but then it slips through your fingers, bites you, and laughs maniacally as it runs away.
I read comic books. But I don’t live in my Mom’s basement and speak Klingon. Really. My first book was on Superman. And Mrs. Holmes is kind of like a Lady Batman, only she’s real.
I have a perhaps-unhealthy obsession with visiting author’s homes. Not the living ones, but you, know, the others. The best are Haworth (see above) and Emily Dickinson’s home in Amherst, Massachusetts.
The most famous author I’ve met recently is Neil Gaiman. I got to introduce him at a talk last year. I didn’t ask him a million questions or request ten selfies. We just showed each other pictures of our kids.
I love the BBC Sherlock but what they did to Mary stinks. No spoilers, but come on. It didn’t ruin the show, but it was a step back and I was sorry to see it.
I can’t swim. I tried, I just can’t do it. The only reason I want you to know this is if you ever see me in a body of water, please throw me something that floats. Or a beer.
