?

What have I written?

There are four novels: Cut To The Quick, A Broken Vessel, Whom The Gods Love and The Devil In Music. A fifth was in the works at the time of her passing.

There are also two short stories: The Lullaby Cheat which is found in the anthology Crime Through Time edited by Miriam Grace Monfredo and Sharan Newman and The Unkindest Cut which is in the anthology Past Poisons edited Maxim Jakubowski.

And lastly, for those of you who are/were members of DorothyL, you may be familier with the following poem that Kate posted on June 26, 1996.

THE AUTHOR; or, LAMENT OF A SERIES CHARACTER

Once upon a morning rainy, while I pondered, bold and brainy,
Over many a wondrous new vocation waiting to be tried;
While among them I was picking, suddenly there came a clicking,
As of fingers lightly flicking o'er a keyboard -- woe betide!
"'Tis a rainy day," I muttered. "Droplets patter far and wide.
That is all I hear outside."

So I watched the raindrops glisten -- stopped my ears, strove not to listen --
Gazed out of the window as the droplets down the panes did glide.
Down those droplets sweetly pattered; when the wind blew hard, they spattered;
But however hard they battered, one dread sound they could not hide:
That accursed, pestilential clicking -- steady as the tide!
THAT sound could not be denied.

"Author," cried I, "stop your typing! Hear my just excuse for griping.
Seven books you've written, and your will I've ne'er before defied.
But what normal, self-respecting person wouldn't be objecting,
When she spends her life detecting fearsome killers far and wide?
Who am I, a hairdresser, to be with crime preoccupied?"
Quoth the Author, "Homicide."

"Author!" said I, "hear me pleading! Give your fans some lighter reading!
Must it always take a blood-soaked corpse to keep you satisfied?
Author, what could be absurder than the grim and gruesome murder
Of that old, one-legged sheep-herder I found in the River Clyde,
Killed by his deranged ex-wife, who in a sheep disguise did bide?"
Quoth the Author, "Homicide."

"Author," said I, "cruel Creator! Of my ills originator!
Think of the embarrassment I've felt at each new corpse I've spied!
Like that performance of Otello, when the guy who played the cello
Turned up floating in the jello -- 'Not again!' my friends all cried.
No wonder people, when they see me coming, run away and hide!"
Quoth the Author, "Homicide."

"Friends complain, with scant endurance, that they can't get life insurance;
Real estate appraisals plummet anywhere that I reside.
When you let me have a lover, he's a gumshoe under cover,
Or a murderer who'll hover, trying to take me for a ride.
All my boyfriends start out Dr. Jekyll -- end up Mr. Hyde!"
Quoth the Author, "Homicide."

And the Author, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
At that damned computer keyboard where for years her trade she's plied.
There she dreams, with greed unslaking, of the money she is making --
Of the royalties in she's raking, to her grisly books allied.
And my life, while she reaps cash by keeping readers terrified,
Shall be plagued with -- Homicide.