Peter Dumas was standing in the guest conference room staring out the window at the Drake Hotel entrance, catacorner from the Knickerbocker. He was wearing jeans. Pressed jeans. Holey jeans, with tattered tears and well-worn knees. On his feet? Purple cowboy boots with 2-inch-thick heels, possibly to give his short, lithe frame extra lift.

He wore no Stetson on his head, just a mass of white hair curling round his ears, and the neck of one of those chamois colored suede jackets lined in sheepskin, you know, the kind that cowboys always wear in those movies while they round up cattle in the winter.

We were not in Montana. We were on the corner of Walton and Michigan Avenue, a heartbeat from Chicago’s Gold Coast. It was December 29, 1992.

He turned when I entered the room, and the bluest eyes I’d ever seen examined me like a cat scan. He offered his hand, “I’m Peter Dumas, and I’d like to buy a condo or a coop, preferably on East Lake Shore Drive. It must have a lake view, a large, fully equipped kitchen, a separate dining room, and a living room that will accommodate 10 to 20 guests. I must have an office and two bedrooms as well.”

I think I smiled. I knew I liked him the minute I shook his hand and saw the smile in those blue eyes of his. That’s when our friendship began, and I wouldn’t trade it for all the tea in China.

A day with Peter is an adventure. An hour with him is mystical. One evening, my father and I were having dinner at his coop at the Drake Residences. (It was the unit he saw and contracted that December day we met.) We were talking about the Cezanne show at the Art Institute when he suddenly turned his head and said, “It’s not suicide, it’s murder!”

He left the dinner table, oh not physically. He escaped to a scene somewhere in his mind where he suddenly discovered clarity.

My father stared, a questioning look on his face. “Is he alright, Susanna,” he asked?

My father is an advertising grandmaster and not a man who randomly associates with men like Peter. But, oh, I forgot to tell you. Peter is a renowned clairvoyant. So, any day, at any time, in any conversation, Peter may disappear momentarily to address a conundrum—one that’s invaded his thought waves. He sees things; he hears things.

While my father and I awaited Peter’s return, his blue eyes became almost black. And an impenetrable hardness replaced the inherent smile on his face. Then, after a few moments, he rose and walked to the Louis 14th desk at the window overlooking Oak Street beach. He made a call on the desktop phone, whispering into the handset. When he finished, he stood silently for a moment or two, then turned and said, “Shall I open another Cabernet Sauvignon?”

“Yes, Peter, I think I need another drink,” my father exclaimed.

Of course, I was used to Peter’s unconventional mind trips, mind movies, whatever. I was fascinated by his sudden revelations. I remember one day when he was teaching me how to make olive bread. Yes, if he put his mind to it, Peter could be a grand chef, but his gifts preclude that ever happening. That day when he finished kneading the dough, he walked to the kitchen sink, washed his hands, and left the room—with nary a word. I followed him to the entry, where he retrieved a coat from the closet as he left the apartment.

He returned an hour and 30 minutes later and said, “We can finish that bread now.”

Fortunately, I’m no novice in the kitchen, so the dough rested, rose, and the loaves were baked. Peter apologized and told me he saw a child kidnapped and needed to offer the police help. Peter is a welcome guest at many major city police departments.

Some days when I see Peter, he tells me stories of the crimes he’s solved with flashes from his mind. He’s not too quick to reveal his thoughts, though, but I treasure his trust in me. Our friendship has blossomed. Even my dad recognizes Peter’s gifts, and their friendship, too, has deepened.

This holiday weekend promises to be one without mystery or murder. But I haven’t checked with Peter yet, today.

Susanna Ryerson

Ready Aim MURDER, A Peter Dumas Mystery #2
Genre: Traditional
Release: May 2021
Purchase Link

An old fashioned country Christmas is on the menu for Peter. No clairvoyance. No sinister acts. And definitely, no murder. At least that’s what he expects as one of the weekend guests at the fabulous Wisconsin estate of Arthur Ryerson–that’s Ryerson of the renowned RFB (Ryerson, Foot and Burner) advertising agency in Chicago. Unfortunately, murder and mayhem have a habit of following Peter Dumas. When an Executive VP is murdered in Florida at an RFB shoot for a TV spot, the Ryerson agency and family are front and center.

A copy of the TV spot is discovered with a new scene–the VP struggling to remove the Comanche arrow that felled him. Death is definitely afoot. Someone takes deadly aim at the Ryerson family, as the staff caters to twelve guests and one killer. But it’s not all murder and mayhem. There’s a peek at Christmas in the city as Chicago scenes unwrap wonderful memories of grand greystones, a magical key club without bunnies, and a ‘Ladies Welcoming Group in Chicago’s Gold Coast . And what’s a mystery without a bit of romance in the air? Or a holiday snow-storm with the state of Wisconsin in its crosshairs? A multitude of motives and secrets challenge Peter to find the hate that kills. And once again, Peter meets the challenge, head-on.

About the author
A former advertising writer/producer/creative director at Chicago Ad Agencies that included Leo Burnett, Grey, and Foote, Cone, and Belding. As an independent writer/producer, she created and developed radio programming, plus documentary and TV pilot projects. Fiction writing followed her television work. For children, The North Pole for Sale and A Very Special Truck. Adult fiction includes the Peter Dumas Series, MURDER for Sale and Ready Aim MURDER. Women’s fiction includes I’m Too Young To Be This Old. She is currently working on the third Dumas mystery.

All comments are welcomed.