We lost Ann Rule this past week. Our paths crossed occasionally over the years, but we were not pals. By the time my first book was published in 1985, Ann’s blockbuster, The Stranger Beside Me, had been out for five years. She was a big fish in the small pool of local Seattle writers, yet she was always gracious and kind—to everyone, not just to me.
Early on, we were both invited to a “group-grope” signing at a Fred Meyer store in Portland. A group-grope is where a retailer invites a number of writers to come, sit side-by-side at folding tables, and sign books. I was seated next to Ann. There were people in her line—lots of them. There were no people in my line, and in the long run, that turned out to be a good thing. Sitting next to Ann for that long hour and a half gave me an opportunity to see a pro at work and to learn how to do book signings.
When a fan came to the head of her line and stood waiting to have a book signed, Ann Rule gave that person her undivided attention. As far as she was concerned, that fan was the only person in her universe at that point. The person walked away feeling a very real connection to her. That valuable lesson has stayed with me ever since. When I do signings, I try to emulate her. I don’t phone it in. I give my fans my complete attention.
The two of us did other joint appearances over the years. One was at a library in White Center. At the time, Ann was working on the Diane Downs case. She had the librarians move our signing table so she could be seated with her back to the wall while still being able to watch the front door. She needed to know who was coming in and going out.
Together or apart, we were always out there, laboring in the vineyards and meeting the people. She told me once, “The two of us are the queens of Bartell Drugs grand openings.” But we also did grand openings for various Safeway stores and QFCs and for one chain of drugstores that no longer exists.
Back in the eighties, when authors were still routinely invited to Seattle’s end-of-summer extravaganza, Bumbershoot, she and I were booked to do an event together. I went on stage first and spoke about my not being admitted into a creative writing program at the University of Arizona in 1964 on the grounds that I was a “girl.” When it came time for Ann to speak, she said that, between the two of us, she didn’t know who was luckier. She had been admitted into the creative writing program at Oregon State, but half way through the semester the professor took her aside, told her she had no talent, and that she needed to consider some other line of work.
By my count, that makes the score two to nothing with “girls” winning hands down. Creative writing professors? Not so much.
Ann Rule wrote “true crime.” I write “mysteries.” Both are “genre fiction,” forms of writing those very professors would regard with sneering contempt. When I write my fictional mysteries, I try to stay away from real cases because real cases affect real people. Families and loved ones of homicide victims number their days by how their lives were before the homicide happened and how they are after it.
Ann did the opposite. She worked for a time for the Seattle Police Department long enough ago that female police officers were required to wear pants and high heels but they were not allowed to carry guns. Her writing strategy was to tell the stories of real crimes in a way that gave victims and loved ones of victims a chance to tell their versions of the crimes that devastated their lives. In a world of plea bargains and innocence via legal loophole, grieving loved ones have precious little opportunity to speak their minds. Ann Rule’s books gave them that opportunity.
In the mid-seventies, Washington State was transfixed by a serial killer who traveled the highways and by-ways in a VW, kidnapping young women with long straight hair, murdering them, and dumping them. I was living in Pe Ell at the time, and when I drove by myself, I was wary. One day, driving home from Chehalis, I remember seeing a VW parked along the side of the road. Was that Ted Bundy? Maybe; maybe not. I had long blond hair at the time, but I also had two small children in the car with me which meant I didn’t quite meet his victim profile.
At the time, Ann was working the Suicide Crisis Hotline, and she was wary, too. One night, after her late night shift, she asked her hotline partner to walk her out to the parking lot. The partner, being a perfect gentleman, immediately complied. As for the name of Ann Rule’s late night escort? None other than Ted Bundy himself. And, as they say, thereby hangs the tale that would become Ann’s first book, her blockbuster—The Stranger Beside Me.
Ann knew about real cases. She followed them avidly and had connections inside police departments all over the country. At the writers conference last week, one of my fellow panelists told about doing a signing with Ann a few years back. It was deja vu all over again with plenty of people in Ann’s line and not many people in the others. One of Ann’s fans, the last person in line, was just creepy. The woman seated next to Ann thought she was having a weird reaction to the guy, but when he walked away, Ann turned to her and said, “Do you know who that is? That’s Gary Ridgway, the Green River Killer.” And that was long before Gary Ridgway was taken into custody and arrested.
Recently, Ann’s name was in the news when cops were called in because her two sons were accused of bilking her out of her funds at a time when she was frail and vulnerable. One of them allegedly stole money from her checking account while the other contented himself with merely bullying her into handing over the cash. I firmly believe there’s a special place in hell for greedy relatives who want they what regard as “their” money, and they want it NOW. I hope so anyway, because that’s the only place Ann Rule will find justice.
Writers write and then they’re gone. I was just sitting here thinking of some of the ones that are no more: Tony Hillerman; Vince Flynn; Robert B. Parker; Elmore Leonard. The list goes on and on. At some point, I suppose someone will be writing a post like this about me. I don’t know if I’ll be in the middle of writing my last book when that happens or if I will have delivered it to the publisher, but I do have an idea of what I’d like it to say:
J.A. Jance was a good old broad. She told a mean story. She loved her family, her readers, and her dogs. She walked 10,000 steps a day.
And last night, while I was walking the last 8,000 of those 10,000 steps, I was striding along and thinking about Ann Rule.
Vaya con Dios, Ann. In my book, you were a good old broad.