Joan G. Hansen has written numerous magazine articles over the years, but this is her first book. She was raised in Ishpeming, in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, studied journalism at Marquette University in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and later received a B.S. degree from Northern Michigan University, after which she taught music and English in the Ishpeming public schools. She sang in a small choral group for many years, and was a charter member of the Marquette Choral Society, which is associated with Northern Michigan University. Joan spent many years acting, directing, singing, helping with props and sets, and in general being a jack-of-all-trades in the local community theater group.
Joan has two grown sons, three grandsons, three step-children, and six step-grandchildren.
. . . In the summer of 1952, Bill and I were sitting in one of the beautiful old high-backed wooden booths in Aunty's, still the watering hole and social hub of the younger people, married or single. We were just about to insert a nickel into the tiny juke box on the wall of our booth in order to play one of the songs of 1952 when suddenly the door opened and in rushed Honey-Bee, looking very wide-eyed. Spotting us, she came quickly over to our booth and sat down next to me, announcing as she did, "There's been a murder!" Her beautiful big eyes opened even wider, and she looked more like her mother than ever.
"A murder?" we both asked, astonished. Other things besides dial telephones had not as yet reached the Upper Peninsula, and crime was, at least partially, among them. Shocks such as this one were few and far between. The quiet and sheltered life we enjoyed in our lovely peninsula was attributable, at least in part, to our separation from the rest of the state by the Straits of Mackinac, and from Canada by Lake Superior. Not many outside influences wormed their way into our tranquil existence.
"In Big Bay," Bee went on. "At the local bar." Honey-Bee had a summer job that year at Bay Cliff, a camp for handicapped children that was located in that small town on Lake Superior just a few miles northwest of Marquette.
"Who was murdered?" Bill queried.
"The bar owner. I don't know his name. Some man just walked in, headed for the bar, and shot him."
"Does anyone have an idea why?" I wondered, enjoying the prospect of having something so exciting to talk about. Honey-Bee had our undivided attention.
"No one seems to know much about it yet,"she told us. "They're still investigating."
That night and that story were to mean much more to all of us than we could possibly have known as we talked that summer evening. The shooting in Big Bay gave us Anatomy of a Murder, the book, and Anatomy of a Murder, the movie. John would write the book, many of us would participate in the movie, and our little town would be jump-started with the electrical charge of a major motion picture being filmed in our midst. We would brush elbows with famous actors, actresses, directors, musicians, cameramen, costume designers, and sound engineers.
Bill and I heard the story from Elizabeth Voelker, daughter of John D. Voelker, who would author the novel under his pen name, Robert Traver, Traver being his mother's maiden name. None of us could have known, then, just what it portended for us all....
[continued]
BEN GAZZARA
Ben was a flirt. What girl, married or single, young or old, doesn't like to be flirted with? Not me, anyway.
"Are you married, Joanie?" he asked shortly after he arrived.
"Yes, I am."
Leaning on his elbows on my cahsier's desk, his face level with mine, he stared at me with those penetrating eyes. I drowned in them. He asked, "How married are you, Joanie?"
My breath caught.
But, of course, I was married, and so replied banteringly, "Pretty married, Bennie."
That started something. Soon George C. Scott was "Georgie," and Duke Ellington became "Dukie." Even Mr. Preminger picked it up. "Hello, Georgie," he would say, or, to John, "How are you today, Judgie?" John Voelker loved calling Ellington "Dukie," and much later wrote a piece about the composer entitled "Dukie." No one seemed to know how those nicknames got started, but I did. It began with, "How married are you, Joanie?" "Pretty married, Bennie."
No one called Mr. Preminger "Ottoie," though. He was much too formidable for that.
