White Christmas Eve!

(Photo 1: front courtyard this morning.)
For the first time in over 25 years Seattle will have snow for Christmas. I got out to Geekatopia for a half day yesterday - though it was touch and go the whole trip. Flipper, my van, nearly lived up to his name as we slid and spun through several feet of ice and snow all over Mercer Island and Bellevue. (Photo 2: Picnic on back deck.) This morning with three more inches on the ground he has refused to move from his nice safe parking space beside the fence. I don't blame him! I am going to start a cheery fire in the fireplace and get on with some serious revisions on this year's NaNoWriMo novel. Cheers!

WINTER SOLSTICE

Happy Winter Solstice!

Every ten years or so Seattle gets a genuine Winter instead of our usual pathetic misty moisties. This morning we are in the cross hairs of a mini-ice age, the forecast warning of high winds, snow, freezing rain. The thermometer on the back deck reads twelve degrees. A recipe for power outages and cold suppers if I ever saw one. By this time tomorrow I may be stoking up the fireplace insert and thanking my lucky stars I have enough lamp oil stored in the garage. But since computers are not oil-powered there is a certain urgency in getting the post up today.

Where was last week’s post, you might wonder. Frozen under a foot of last week’s snow of course. Not one flake has melted off the courtyard, the garden, the deck, or Flipper, my poor work van (see above), since it buried us Wednesday night. Still, Flipper and I managed to make it to all but nineteen accounts before getting stopped in our tracks by this Fargo-like weather. I despair of next week’s route - how on earth will I dig myself out of the drifts and pack forty hours of work into three days? And three days it will be since Christmas is on Thursday! How many offices are likely to be open on Friday, do you think? Pretty much none.

One thing to know about Seattle: we don’t do snow. We have nothing much in the way of snow plows so our tactic has always been to hunker down at the sight of the first flake, halting all activity until melt-off - which is usually a matter of hours. Just as native Seattlites don’t own umbrellas, they also don’t generally possess snow boots, gloves, woolly scarves and hats or thermal underwear unless they are addicted to skiing or snow boarding.

Yesterday I watched two snowmobiles churn their way up my street toward Albertson’s supermarket - I found myself envying them as I dressed myself in multiple layers, located my black kid opera gloves and the wool watch cap my dad wore for decades on the flight line down at Boeing. Garbed like one of the South Park kids, I set off up the hill with a Trader Joe’s bag under one arm and a short grocery list stuffed in my pocket. It was an endless, slippery, bone-chilling two blocks. By the time I reached Albertson’s my glasses had steamed over, my nose was running, and I was kicking myself that I hadn’t hitched a ride from the guys on the snowmobiles.

I bought a package of split peas, a couple of ham hocks, carrots and celery - the prospect of a steaming pot of homemade split pea soup being the only thing capable of prying me out of my nice warm house and up that snowy hill! On the way home I noticed a neighbor trying to clear his driveway by dragging a hand truck up and down the slope - which I thought was pretty creative on his part.
Still, I felt sorry for the poor guy so as soon as I got home with the soup makings I loaned him my snow shovel - the snow shovel I use for spreading bark around the garden. My five year old five-dollar snow shovel is finally doing the job it was created for! Just goes to show.

So, just in case I am stranded in an ice cave until 2009, happy holidays from our house to yours!!

Gobble-gobble

Nope, it hasn't snowed - this photo was taken last year, but this is the weekend I decorate the house plants for the holidays. Our tiny house is too small for a full-blown tree - even if I were someone who believed in killing a perfectly happy tree for a few weeks of glitz and glam. Plant ladies don't murder plants if they can help it.

In many ways this tradition of decorating the family houseplants is more meaningful to me than if I bought a fir tree down at the market. The Christmas cactus at the center of the photo is the one I inherited from my grandmother - she in turn inherited it from her mother, the original Sallie Tierney. The "library table" on which the plants stand was also my grandmother's and appears in Christmas photographs all the way back to the 1930s.

And speaking of traditions, every year my sister calls to ask how to roast a turkey - this Thanksgiving was no exception. I take it as a compliment that she thinks I actually know how to perform this mystical seasonal ritual. Our grandmother (same one who passed down the Christmas cactus) hated cooking - agonized over holiday dinners so intensely that she made herself sick with stress every year. I don't remember her ever just enjoying the holidays. She agonized over every dish - but especially the turkey.

Over the years I must have tried dozens of turkey roasting theories. I've basted, trussed, rubbed, brined, stuffed, unstuffed, herbed, buttered, oiled, smoked and bar-b-qued - roasted breast side up and breast side down - quick cook and slow cook. The only thing I have never tried is deep fried - I'm a total coward when it comes to boiling oil!

I have found only one sure-fire, stress-free, perfect way to roast a turkey - and it is also the easiest method. Here's the instructions for benefit of my sister and all other turkey-intimidated folks:

1. Thaw bird (remembering to remove the weird little packets of turkey guts)
2. Rub olive oil all over the bird. Tuck wing tips under bird - wrap drumstick ends with foil
3. IF YOU WISH, rub bird inside and out with herbs/spices of your choice - I like lemon pepper this year. Think of the turkey as a humongous chicken and get creative. Forget the salt - most turkeys are pumped with salt water these days.
4. No matter how tempted, do not stuff anything at all into the cavity! No onions, herbs, bread - nothing. Why ask for trouble? It roasts more evenly unstuffed.
5. Place bird in roasting pan breast side up. Pour an inch or two of water or white wine or both in roasting pan. DON'T COVER!
6. Place bird on lower rack of an oven preheated to 475 degrees - Yep, I said 475. Roast for 30 to 45 minutes at that temperature until top of bird is starting to brown. This step seals in the moisture, ensuring that the turkey will not be dry.
7. Now, lower oven temperature to 325 or 350. Loosely cover turkey with a sheet of aluminum foil. (Do not use roasting pan lid)
8. Take a nap, go shopping, eat a can of black olives, feed the cat, write a poem. Don't even think about the turkey. It's not going anywhere and doesn't need anything from you.If you just can't stand not peeking, check it after a few hours - add water to the roasting pan if it's getting dry. Baste if it makes you feel noble.
9. After about 5 or 6 hours (for a 20lb bird) the little button will pop up (if you bought one of those button-equipped turkeys) - or you can use a meat thermometer or wiggle a leg to see if the turkey is done.
10. When the turkey is done, remove from oven and let it "rest" for 15 or 20 minutes. Carve it. Serve it. Save the bones for the best part of the meal - turkey soup! (People who know me, know that I have the stock pot going well before anyone sits down to the holiday meal.)

Okay, that's it. Print it up, Mary Ann, so you won't have to call in a few weeks - but call anyway!

RV-GO TO RACK AND RUIN CROSSES THE FINISH LINE!

Ah the thrill of victory!! I crossed the 50,000 word line on my National Novel Writing Month project at 9:10 a. m. this morning! Hurray! It's been a real struggle this year since I didn't know "who-done-it" until just this week. It doesn't get any easier. It was like pulling teeth plunking the last five-hundred words into the computer this morning.

Now, that is not to say I have actually finished the novel. Nope. I have somewhere around three chapters to write to finish the actual story. But I have the end written, so all I need to do is stitch things together - then rewrite, rewrite, rewrite.

For now though I go back to work tomorrow to rest up!

P.S. Seattle beat the word count socks off the entire rest of the world for the third year in a row!! Yes, we rule! (Sorry, rest-o-world. Better luck next November.)

BEGINNING WEEK THREE OF NANOWRIMO/ NEW BOOK!

I have written over 32K words now on RV-GO to Rack and Ruin! Over half way done and pushing on ahead - think I may actually have a plot going now. Seattle is see-sawing for the lead with Maryland - this morning they were slightly ahead so we Westcoasters need to up the intake of Starbucks and take back our lead. There are over 115 writers world wide participating this year! Quite impressive.

But it is a small world, when you look at it - I emailed one of the writers from the Isle of Skye in Scotland the other day. She's writing a mystery novel too and I wanted to give her pat on the back for her very impressive word count. She wrote back that she grew up in Portland and always enjoyed taking the train to Seattle! How about that?

Friday was the last Writers Workshop until January. Our new collection of work is done! See photo. The concept of the cover is that you are looking over the backyard fence into an alternate universe - cool, huh? We certainly had great fun putting our little book together.

Tomorrow I go back to work after two week's vacation. Always a bit of trepidation in returning to work. Will I still have a job??? In the present economy companies are going out of business or being bought up faster than maple leaves fall from the trees at first frost! I guess we'll see. I know my boss is probably sick to death of doing my route by now. Especially since the poinsettias are on their way!

CORA JANE IN CORVALLIS

Cora Jane Dooley, my semi-retired waitress, is well on the way to her next adventure. This time she and her Minnie Winnie motor home, RV-GO, are in Corvallis, Oregon, where she has already gotten into more trouble than a woman her age should have to deal with before her first cup of morning coffee.

The word count for RV-GO TO RACK AND RUIN is at 15,776 so far, my goal being to get to half way by next Friday (The finish line on this 50K marathon is midnight on 30 Nov.)

I will be taking a few hours off today for our Senior Writers Workshop - it is second to the last meeting before our Fall break. The project this quarter is to publish a collection of our work for friends and family. We've titled it: THIS AND THAT - HERE AND THERE - THEN AND NOW. If all goes well, I'll be taking it over to Staples for printing Monday! My son, a talented designer, will be doing the cover this weekend. Always exciting to have a new book out! When we have it finished I'll let you know how you can get your copy.

Now, it's back to the novel! Have a great weekend!

HURRAY! A BRAND NEW DAY!

A beautiful new day dawns! We have a fabulous new President! A fresh start."Yes, we can!"

I'm right on target for finishing "RV-GO to Rack and Ruin" by the end of the month. Have 12,502 words at this point. This perfect morning!

SAMHAIN MORNING IN THE RAIN

Happy New Year! It’s Samhain, 31 October, which my Irish ancestors celebrated as the last day of the year - and it’s been such a wretched year that I’ve decided not to wait for the end of December to pull the plug on it. Therefore I declare this year OVER! I start a new year tomorrow (as well as two weeks vacation). And I start a new novel when National Novel Writing Month launches its 10th year at midnight tonight. To that end I’m clearing all the old business from my desk, putting the plot notes together, gathering research materials and making sure there’s a month’s supply of coffee in the kitchen. While outside the window, cold rain is slooshing off the gutters like a waterfall.

This should be a very interesting NaNoWriMo - I’m writing the sequel to last year’s novel (Which you have just finished reading, right?). Tried to log onto the NaNoWriMo site this morning but the servers are already down for the count - which means that half the world is trying to belatedly sign up for this year’s competition. I imagine that somewhere in California there is smoke pouring out of a server rack while an army of frightened geeks swirl into confused flight like a colony of rabid bats.

To check on my novelizing progress: IF you manage to get onto the site, click on “authors” and enter “Salt Cellar” into the search window. That’s me. Now I have to get back to work!!

LAST WEEK BEFORE NANOWRIMO/RV-GO DOWN TO THE SEA LAST EPISODE!

(Photo: Sail boat "Autumn Wind", Westport)



Yesterday I participated in a pre-NaNoWriMo workshop on plotting - plotting being a pretty darn important skill for budding mystery writer types! And it was a really helpful workshop too - lots of super ideas and a marvelous workbook I know I'll use again and again.(Thanks again, Renda, for a great workshop!)

Down side of the day: it went from 10:30 to 2:30 with no lunch! Only food available was cookies - inedible to this gluten intolerant novelist. I filled up on the assortment of trick-or-treat candy scattered across our table (Not your fault, Renda, that there's not much on the planet I can still eat.). Luckily I'm not diabetic! I was glad there was plenty of food for thought because the stomach was fresh out of luck. By 2:30 I was reeling with sugar jitters.

This week I'll be doing the prep work for National Novel Writing Month - sketching out the plot, character studies, background information on settings etc. I go on vacation starting this Thursday so that I'll have the first two weeks of November doing basically nothing beyond writing non-stop. Goal being to have half the 50 thousand word novel under my belt by the 15th. I'll be spending a great deal of that two weeks up at Little Pat's Cafe on Ambaum pounding away on the laptop, since if I'm hanging around the house I'll find a thousand domestic activities suddenly, inexplicably enticing - dish washing, laundry, scrubbing the bathtub, dusting book shelves are never more compelling than when you are faced with writing 2000 words before sunset.

I'll keep you posted on my progress via the blog!

(Photo: Beach Biker, Westport)

Okay, here we go with the conclusion of RV-GO Down to the Sea. DO NOT READ THIS IF YOU HAVE NOT READ THE PREVIOUS EPISODES! That's cheating! So, catch up first. (Novel starts with the first post of August - click on "August" up there on the right and scroll back to the first week.)


Chapter 7
“Dooley! Dooley, where are you?”
It had to be a hallucination - a near death something or other - but it certainly sounded like Mert.
“I'm down here in the engine room!” I yelled at my hallucination. “I can’t get my hands free. Get me out of here!”
“Hang on, I’m coming,” he yelled back.
He took months to get to me - or so it felt at the time. Eventually he was hoisting me up the ladder in front of him, pushing me to the crazily canted deck.
“Can you jump?” he yelled in my ear.
“Jump where?”
“Into the water. We will have to swim to Angel Face. I couldn’t risk tying up to this wreck.”
“How am I going to swim with my hands taped?”
“Oh, yeah.” he said and tore off the tape and several layers of skin.
“You can swim, right?”
“Not in this heavy coat. Not for long.”
“It is not far. I’ll hold you up,” he said, grabbing me around the waist. “All you have to do is kick like mad.”
I noticed for the first time he had a life jacket on. I thought we might just have a chance if we got to the boat fast. It is not drowning that kills in these waters, it is hypothermia. We would only have a few minutes.
I took a deep breath, nodded my head to Mert, and together we plunged into the icy waters. There was no way to know where I was or in what direction we were swimming. I trusted Mert to know whether we were headed to his boat. And when we got to his boat how would we get aboard, I wondered. I needn’t have worried. A small Coast Guard rescue boat intercepted us, and two of the Guard’s finest pulled us out of the turbulent sea. I could hear a helicopter somewhere a way off. Eddie and Kyle would very soon have company.

* * *
“Okay everybody, I put on a new pot of coffee so drink up,” bellowed a yellow-haired Cindy over the din of the crowded restaurant.
I thought if I had one more cup I’d never manage to sleep again but it had taken that much - and a night bundled in Mert’s thick Hudson’s Bay blankets - to at long last reheat my bone marrow.
“You’re looking a little more cheery this morning,” said Mert.
“Guess our adventure put a lot of things into perspective,” I replied."And speaking of cheery, Cindy's in a good mood today - that's the perkiest color her hair has been since I got to Westport."
Mert chuckled. "Marj and Cindy's mom have decided to move in together at that new assisted living place down in Tokeland. We may have another murder on our hands with those two trying to be room mates but it's been a big relief to Cindy."
"Wonderful! I'm so glad for all concerned."
I caught sight of Alice Burnbaum threading her way through the tables toward us.
“Good morning, you two!” she said. “You gave us quite a scare, Cora Jane. Mind if I join you? Now that you can talk without your teeth chattering I have to hear how you managed to get yourself shipwrecked!”
“Getting shipwrecked is easy in Westport!” I said. “This town does shipwreck better than any place I have ever visited. It is staying above water that is hard.”
“Dooley could manage to drown in a tea cup,” offered Captain Merton. “Don’t scowl, drink your coffee.”
“I was doing pretty good I thought. After all, if I had not kicked the daylights out of Surfergirl’s innards that trawler might have gotten over the bar and away before you could catch up in your little put-put.”
“Don’t you be bad mouthing my Angel Face, little lady. She did just fine catching up with you on your joy ride.”
“How on earth did you manage to know C. J. was on that boat, Mert?” asked Alice.
“That’s easy. I was following her down to Float 3 and I saw Eddie Singer grab her but I was too far away to reach her before he could take her on board. I knew he might have a weapon and a pal or two with him so I needed back-up. I called the cops. Good old Eddie and his goon Kyle were casting off though before the cops could arrive.”
“Following her? Why would you be following Cora Jane in the first place? I never had you down as a secret stalker, Captain Merton.”
“All part of my mysterious aura, Alice,” Mert winked. “At lunch Dooley mentioned she left her bike down on the marina. I was still not sure what she was up to so I thought I would . . . well, make sure she was not doing something shady around my boat.”
“You see, Alice, it was all about his dang boat!” I said. “Just typical that the man would think first about his boat before he thought about a lone woman sailing into dangerous waters in the fog - figuratively and literally speaking.”
Before he could think up a suitable retort, Cindy swooped up to top off our coffee.
“Hi, Alice! Can I get you something to eat? Breakfast special is Italian scramble,” said Cindy.
“Italian scramble? What is in that, exactly?”
“Italian sausage, Italian herbs, tomatoes and cheese.”
“Hmm. Sounds good. Okay, bring me the special but no toast.”
“You got it,” she said. “How about you two? Do you have everything or can I get you something else?”
“I am fine, Cindy,” I said. “You sure you don’t want me to work this shift? It is absolutely packed in here this morning. Must be a convention in town.”
“No work for you this morning, C. J. If even half of what I hear is true about what you and Captain Merton have been up to, you need your rest. And this crowd? Shit, they aren’t eating all that much - they are just hanging around for the gossip. You are the hottest news since Pete Osterseller got his pinky caught in the cranberry picker.”
“Okay, if you’re sure. I’ll be in as usual tomorrow morning bright and early. And um . . . watch the language, young lady,” I said, laughing.
“Oops, sorry.”
She evaporated into the crush of diners taking the coffee pot with her.
“To get back to your question, Alice,” said Mert. “I had a reason to think that if Dooley went near Float 3 she might be in trouble. We all know what a pit bull Singer is but I suspected he was up to worse mischief than usual and would take serious objection if he saw Cora Jane snooping around in his business.”
“I was just looking for my bike,” I said.
“Oh, sure you were! You don’t expect any of us to believe that, do you?” he said.
“Mert, Cora Jane and I were already speculating that what Carl had discovered was that someone was smuggling illegal aliens into the marina - most likely from Float 3. That he had taken pictures.” Alice waited for Mert to fill in the blanks.
“I didn’t want to believe that Carl would . . . well, be involved in trying to shake anyone down. It was easier to blame a stranger for Carl’s death, easier to think that it was a random killing. Anything but what it really looked like. Carl was meeting someone at the Lens Building. He let his killer into the building with his own key. That was obvious since there was no break in.”
“But you wouldn’t listen to me,” I said.
“I wouldn’t, no,” he said. “I’m sorry for that, Dooley. But it looks like you and I came to some of the same conclusions.”
“I was going to tell you about Alice and me searching Carl’s photo files - about how I thought the evidence was on a digital memory card.”
“I’d already found it, though,” he said. He turned to Alice. “I don’t know if you knew it but I was on record as Carl’s executor since that year he had that heart attack - so the cops released his effects to me along with . . with the ashes for disposal. I had Carl’s key to the Lens House.”
“So you went over to get the Ashes Fund?” asked Alice.
“I didn’t need the fund to pay to fuel Angel Face - my usual fee and the fuel were going to be my gift to Carl - but I knew Carl would expect me to pick up whatever was in the bank. There wouldn’t be much in it this time of year any way but I wanted to honor his wishes as far as I could.”
“And when you opened the lighthouse bank you found my five dollar bill and a small memory chip from a digital camera,” I volunteered. “Did you know right away what it was?”
“Yeah, I knew that Carl had to have put it there on purpose. That he left it for me. It was something he wanted me to know. I took it into Aberdeen to a camera shop where Carl used to shop. I had the guy there print up everything on the card.”
“Was I right that he was taking night shots of the marina?”
“You were right,” he said. “He used a long exposure from probably the upper floor of the museum . . . “
“I figured it was from the widow’s walk. He would have a perfect angle to catch the full length of the float.”
“Right, that makes sense,” continued Captain Merton. “There was a Catch-a-Lot Seafood box truck parked at the top of the ramp, a blur of human shapes leading from Surfergirl to the truck. The time stamp said one a. m. It wasn’t too much of a leap to figure out what I was looking at. People were being smuggled into port, then loaded onto the truck. There were half a dozen photos, all different dates over a period of six months.”
“Wow, that is a lot of people!” I said. “From what I read it costs these folks from forty to eighty thousand dollars to get into the U. S. from Asia. Even if it was only five coming in each trip that’s millions of dollars!”
“Not that our boy Eddie would get that much. He probably got no more than ten percent to ferry a shipment in from open water.”
“Then why didn’t he just pay off Carl? Why kill him? Surely Carl was not asking so much that murder was the only answer.”
“Oh, I am sure Eddie would have just cut him in for a few thousand now and then. That is all Carl would have wanted - just a little extra to stretch his Coast Guard pension so he can keep up his photography. Not enough to kill for, no.”
“Then why did Eddie Singer - I assume we agree it had to be Singer - why did he kill the old fellow, do you think?” asked Alice.
“I think I know the reason,” I said. “Yesterday morning before breakfast I was down by the marina and I saw - well, heard actually - a boat come into the marina with no running lights on. I got nosy and followed the sound through the fog to Float 3. There I overheard a conversation - an argument actually. I recognized Singer’s voice from when he threw me off the float the day before the murder.”
“You remembered a guy’s voice from one chance meeting? That is pretty damn good remembering, lady,” said Mert.
“I’m a waitress, Mert. I have stored on my memory card every voice in this room, every order for every regular customer,” I said. “But to continue, Eddie and another man were arguing about something they had just disposed of off shore. I gathered it was something very unpleasant. They were blaming each other but it seemed to come down to Kyle screwing up and dumping something in a guts truck at Catch-a-Lot. They’d retrieved whatever it was and dumped it in the ocean. I had read in the newspaper’s police blotter how someone had reported a particularly bad smell coming from a guts truck - which sounded sort of normal to me actually but what do I know of normal fish gut stinkiness? If the cops had actually investigated the truck they might have found the source of the smell, which I figure was a dead Asian illegal. The poor man probably died in the truck and Kyle, being a few beans short of a burrito, panicked and hid the body under fish parts.”
“That’s horrible,” said Alice. “So, Eddie thought Carl might have been able to point a finger at him for the death. He was trying to cover up the trail that lead from the dead Asian to his front door - or in this case to Surfergirl.”
“Sure looks like it,” said Mert. “So far the police have those two for kidnapping and assaulting Dooley here, but I’m confident that with the photos and what she overheard they are going to be looking at charging Eddie with murder and Kyle with accessory to murder. Who knows, maybe they will be able to build a case against Eddie for beaning me and throwing my stuff around - maybe even arson for burning Carl’s cabin.”
“They were busy boys,” I said. “Hope they don’t get bail. I wouldn’t want to see either one of them again. Well, at least not until the trial.”
As I spoke, I suddenly realized I would have to go through another trial! I’d been assaulted and abducted! I was the victim and star witness! I wondered if there was still time to unplug RV-GO and high tail it out of town. No, I supposed not. The last thing I’d wanted was to get involved in another long legal wrangle but here I was neck deep. There went the illusion that I could live the rest of my life quietly beneath the radar.
“You okay, Dooley? You look kind of sick. Don’t worry, even if he gets bail I will not let that assh . . . uh, that slime ball anywhere near you.”
“Thank you, Rambo, I appreciate that but I’m sure I am quite capable of defending myself - if it’s not foggy, that is.”
“So, Cora Jane, since you will be staying in town until after the trial - which I suspect will last until the end of Spring or Summer - I hope you’ll consider becoming a volunteer at the Maritime Museum,” Alice interjected, patting my hand.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said.
“Ah, come on, Dooley. You know you are not going anywhere anytime soon. They got an opening for a docent. You’d be a natural.”
“Well, okay I’ll think about it.”
And I would. Cindy came back around with the coffee pot but we all three waved her off. We were swimming in coffee.
“I’ll be off now,” said Alice. “I’m so glad you’re all right, my dear.” she gave me a squeeze and wiped her eyes with her sleeve.
“Nice gal,” said Mert, after she had left. “She doesn’t take to everyone but she sure seems to like you, Dooley. You ought to take her up on that docent thing. Have you thought of settling here permanently? I know Westport hasn’t made the best impression so far but we grow on you.”
“I planned to leave in the Spring, but who knows how long this trial will go on. As to permanently, I don’t think I want to be anywhere permanently, Mert. In a previous life I stayed in one place way too long and it didn’t suit me. But if I were shopping for a permanent home Westport would be way up on the list. It’s a welcoming, pleasant little town. Well, if you can ignore the murder and mayhem factor.”
“We have our quiet moments too,” he said. “It’s not usually such nonstop excitement around this neck of the woods. Sometimes a person can actually go out on a boat for a nice cruise and not end up on the bottom of the bay.”
“I’ll take your word for that, sir. So far I haven’t had many quiet moments.”
“Maybe you’ll give me the chance to show you the peaceful side of Grays Harbor. As a matter of fact, I was thinking of asking if you’d want to join me for a moonlit spin around the harbor some time soon. I could make us some coffee. I think I still owe you an on-board cup of coffee.”
“Oh please, no more coffee! I think I am switching over to tea as of now,” I said. “But I wouldn’t say no to a glass of champagne on New Year’s Eve.”
“How about a hot turkey sandwich and a dry chardonnay on Thanksgiving next Thursday instead?”
“You drive a damn hard bargain, captain,” I replied.
He drove me home in his pickup truck, my rusty bike bouncing in the back. When we pulled up at RV-GO he lifted it out of the bed, walked me to my door, gathered me in his arms and . . . well, I’ll leave something to the imagination.
I hadn’t decided how long I’d stay in Westport. There were too many other places I wanted to see in my cozy RV. But I was warming up to this water logged community and its hardy people. Especially one charming silver fox of a charter captain. Not to mention that I still wanted to get out there and catch me some salmon!

THE END
(Photo: Crab Ring, Westport)

THE IDES OF OCTOBER (OR CLOSE ENOUGH)/ RV-GO DOWN TO THE SEA continued:

(Photo: October - Inn of the West Wind Cafe, Westport, Wa)


This week I’m gearing up for National Novel Writing Month which starts at midnight 1 November. It will be my third year participating - third novel! Back in the old, old days (We’re talkin’ ‘70s.) when it was a stretch for me to write a twenty-line poem, the notion that I would be writing even the shortest novel would have been inconceivable. My University of Washington poetry professor, David Wagoner, would continually urge, “Three more lines, Ms Tierney!” whenever I presented him yet another, precious, tiny, constipated poem. I know he despaired of me ever breaking past that impervious twentieth line.

I have now written three novels complete to first draft stage and have two more in the works. (I’ve learned it’s easier to write two at a time than to slog along on one - if I get stuck, I bounce to the other for a while until I get unstuck. No writer’s block problems here!) Without NaNoWriMo I’d still be plodding along one agonizing word after another, accomplishing very little and hating every frustrating false start.

If you have ever thought you’d like to write a novel but haven’t managed to get off the dime, considering taking up the challenge this year! (Link under "Delights"over there to the right.) How it works: You have exactly one month to write a fifty-thousand word novel, writing like the wind without looking back - no rewrites, no concern over type-os, no procrastinating! You pull up a pot of coffee (or ten) and write like a maniac under the gun. The only thing that counts in the challenge is the word count. (You paste your production into the web site and their word counting wizard thingy does its job - no human reads your work - it’s all handled in Cyberland.) By focusing on word count - not sense or quality - you gag your inner critic long enough to actually produce something.

You’ll find that once you are in flow a magical thing happens: zillions of ideas come flying out of thin air into your noggin! It’s exhilarating, liberating, heady. There is no feeling like it except maybe jumping out of an airplane (Or so I imagine, being too chicken to actually jump out of an airplane.). For shear thrills I highly recommend writing a novel in a month.

Oh, did I mention it is a competition? And bragging just a little bit, Seattle is the defending champion, having logged the most words two years in a row, beating the authorial pants off the entire Rest-of-World, including London, Los Angeles, and New York! (Could Seattle's coffee addiction have something to do with it? Hmm...) So, bring it on Rest-of-World, we’re goin’ for the gold!

Now for the second to the last episode of RV-GO Down to the Sea (Last year's NaNoWriMo novel.):


Whoever had done the honors with the duct tape had taped not only my wrists but over my fingers like a uni-mitten. Too bad they had not been smart enough to do it behind my back. I dug around with my teeth trying to find an end I could grab. It was stuck down firm and tasted poisonous but I figured that under the circumstances I was willing to risk being poisoned - or pulling out a filling. I worried the tape like a terrier, knowing I might not have very long for the project.
Less than I thought - the hatch slammed open, light blinding me as one of the men threw a switch and the boat banked starboard.
“Make sure the bitch is not going anywhere while I get us out of the harbor,” yelled Eddie Singer.
I lay still and pretended to be unconscious. There was no telling how long I could pull that off until Kyle, who was stomping down the ladder into the hold, figured out that I was awake. The longer he went on thinking I was out the better. He might leave me alone. Or he might not. I didn't know what lengths this guy might go to to amuse himself. Maybe kick me around - or something worse. I wondered what Eddie wanted him to do - kill me? I didn't think Kyle was the type. Probably Eddie wanted him to make sure I was taped up better than I was.
I could hear him breathing as he came my way. Could hear him tear off some tape. I chuckled inwardly thinking that Kyle was tearing not cutting the tape - as I recalled a CSI Miami episode when the perp had cut the duck tape instead of tearing, making it almost impossible to link the piece of tape with a particular roll. I must be getting hysterical, I thought. Who cares at this point who matches what? I needed to get free!
“Hey, Kyle, leave that and get back up here!” yelled Eddie from the hatch.
“Make up your mind, dammit Eddie, I can’t do everything! What the hell is the matter anyway?”
“There is a boat coming up behind us. Fast.”
“You think it is the cops?”
“Nah, fishing boat. I can’t make out who it is but he is closing fast.”
“You think he is trying to catch up with us?”
“How do I know, you moron. Get up here! I can’t get us over the bar in this damn fog and watch this clown at the same time.”
Could this work to my advantage, I wondered. Kyle had left the hatch open and I now saw I was about ten feet from a very greasy smelly engine that was working over time to speed the trawler out of the Westport Marina. I shimmied across the floor toward it. I didn't have a clue what I was looking at but I knew that if I could disable it in some way - without killing myself - it might slow us down and buy me some time.
On the other hand they might panic and throw me over the side. Either way I did not have much to lose. I picked a pipe that looked like it was connecting to what on a car could be a carburetor, and I kicked out with all my strength. Nothing happened. I tried again. It bent but it did not break. I still couldn’t get my fingers free so unscrewing things was out of the question. There was a wire attached to part of the carburetor thing. I took aim with my foot, praying I would not be electrocuted, closed my eyes and gave the wire a swift kick.
The engine sputtered and lurched. I fell back on my tail bone as the boat swung to one side and lurched as if going over a speed bump. There was an enormous explosion in my head as I landed. What had I done? The boat was at a funny angle. Had the other boat rammed us? Had we run aground? No way for me to know what was going on top side. My captors were shrieking at each other as I tried to make sense of what just happened.
Which was when I noticed that I was sitting in water. An ever increasing puddle. I hoped I hadn’t wet myself with fright. Then immediately hoped I had because the only other alternative I could think of was the trawler was taking on water.
I screamed. The two on the deck were too busy to care what I was doing. I decided to try to climb the ladder using my elbows to hang on. Oh please don’t let us sink, I prayed, as I put one foot on the lower rung, hooked my taped hands over an upper to steady myself. Then the boat lurched to the side again and threw me off into the deepening water. They were going to abandon the boat. I could hear them talking about the life raft - clearly they weren't including me in their survival plans. I was being left in the hold to go down with the boat. I wondered if I should let the water lift me up as it rose until I could - but how could I swim with my hands tied together? And even if I could wouldn’t the under tow take me down with the boat when it sunk? I was going to drown!
I had no time. I had to get the tape off of my hands. Was there anything sharp around? Nothing that I could see. I again tried to find the end with my teeth. Maybe I could tear it with my teeth, I thought. The water was up to my ankles now. I could not hear the two men any more. They must have bailed out in a raft.
Then above the rushing water I heard another motor. The other boat? The one that had been coming after us! But a lot of good it would do me if no one knew I was on the boat. They would pick up Eddie and Kyle, who would never let on that they had an unwilling passenger.
My teeth found a tiny curl of an end on the tape! Please, please hold, I thought, as I tugged gently. I have got to be patient, I told myself, not get excited. I couldn't afford to lose the end of the tape now that it was starting to pull free. I concentrated on working the end back around my hands, adjusting my grip until I thought my teeth would fall out. Soon I'd unwound about six inches of so and I was beginning to think I might work myself free. If I had just one hand free I could pull myself up the ladder. The boat was leaning over even farther and the water was at my knees. I wouldn't have enough time.

WEEK OF THE GREAT MELTDOWN/RV-GO DOWN TO THE SEA continued

(Photo: Driving into the Sea at Sunset)
Well, wasn’t this a fun week! Guess this means none of us will be doing any holiday shopping this year. I went to check my 401K balance - and couldn’t find it! It is probably hiding in a crack in the baseboards with dust bunnies and lost paper clips.

Any one who has not been in a coma for the past year knows it’s time to gird the loins and reach for the battle plans. A few weeks ago I sold all positions in my Roth IRA except two (I kept Procter and Gamble and a gold stock. My family has always had PG - held it all the way through the first Great Depression - the theory being that people will always buy toothpaste and face cream. So far, so good.), thus preventing my principle investment from dropping into the void. My Scottrade broker (Scottrade is the best! Check them out.) tells me there are only two positions anyone should be in right now: cash and fetal. Assume the crash position!

Then this week I took a disbursement from the Roth and paid OFF my credit cards - a key item on my personal battle plan. What a liberating feeling! And where else in this economy can you get a guaranteed 13% to 16% return? Wah-hoo! (Oops, that exclamation might not mean what it used to mean before Washington Mutual became road kill.)

Oh, and yesterday I applied for Social Security. Yikes! How did I get this old so fast? I wasn’t going to apply right now but I called for information and the helpful customer service professional ran some numbers and informed me that it doesn’t really matter whether I take the $ now or wait another year - the bucks will be the same. So why wait? And, well, I thought I might as well get on board while Soc Sec still exists.

Now here’s this week’s episode of RV-GO Down to the Sea (If you are just joining us be sure you go back to the beginning. This is a mystery novel so it’s cheating to read it backwards.Time to catch up since there are only two more episodes to go! In case you need to go back to the beginning, it starts in the August posts.):

The fog folded around me like a great mat of cotton batting. I pulled out the camera and turned it on by feel. Its screen lit up at once and using the light it emitted I set it for the longest exposure available, placed the camera on the bench beside me to minimize motion and snapped the shutter. After what seemed like a minute the camera made a little clicking noise. I checked the display screen. There was the marina! The boats were hazy but I could see them. Even the masts of sail boats tied up at the far end of the longest float. I tinkered with the positioning of the camera and took a few more shots. Then I walked up to the railing and tried a shot of Float 9, wondering if I could get a photo of Angel Face. Yes, there she was cloaked in wisps of ectoplasm.
It seemed like I could not stop thinking about Mert. I wondered how his head was. Had he had the stitches out. Had Marj talked to him yet and if so what had he decided? Would he call me? I had given him my cell phone number when we went out to dinner at the Pine Dunes. Had he kept it?
Strange how fog amplifies sound - the gentle slap of water against the hulls, the jingling of couplings on the masts, a splash as a fish leaps at imagined bugs. The mournful groan of a fog horn off the jetty. And somewhere in the direction of the mouth of the harbor the bruum-bruum-bruum throb of a boat engine.
What would a boat be doing out in this pea soup, I wonder. I cannot see where the engine sounds are coming from. Nor can I see any running lights but figure they are being swallowed up in the fog. I point my camera in the direction of the noise and shoot. Nothing. Oh, but then I think how the sound waves could have distorted my perception of the boat’s location. I shoot farther in toward shore. And there it is - a large dark shape. Trawler by the look of it. With no running lights.
My heart skipped a beat. I must be imagining this, surely. What kind of idiot would be coming into the marina blind? Unless he is doing it totally on instruments. I did not know enough about navigation systems to know if that was even possible. Curious, I tracked his progress with the camera. I wondered if night vision goggles worked in fog. Whatever this guy was doing it can’t be the normal way to come into Westport. He was heading in a few floats down. I decided to walk down to watch him come in. For one thing I really wanted to see how this loony was going to manage the maneuver.
The trawler cut engines as it neared Float 3. I could hear the water sliding along its hull and the thump as it nudged against the float. I hunched down behind a bench, even though I doubted any one on the boat’s deck could have seen me. I was well out of the range of the pallid lamplight and shrouded in heavy fog. Did I think I was seeing a smuggling shipment coming into the marina? Not really. Smugglers would not be so blatant - at least I thought not. I figured they would not be coming in so close to four o’clock. Fishermen are early risers. There would likely be someone out and about at that hour. Either fishermen or the shipyard crew. Professional smugglers would avoid the chance of being seen. This boat had to be up to something else. But it wasn’t likely to be an honest something.
I held myself very still thinking that if I made a move away from the bench any one on deck might catch sight of the movement even if I was nearly invisible. Then I heard the voices. Two male voices, I thought. The pitch was low but clipped with restrained anger. Arguing. A rope slapped against the float as someone tied one of the lines snubbing the boat against the floating dock. One of the men let fly a curse. The other man replied though I couldn’t make out the words. Just as well. I am sure they were not pleasant words. Their voices traveled to where I hid behind the bench at the top of the ramp, ebbing and flowing, rising and falling like a turbulent tide of anger. Only part of the conversation reached me but it was enough for me to piece together.
“Son of a bitch . . . swear, you are dumb as a bag of rocks.”
“Hadn’t been for you and your . . . “
“You keep it up, idiot . . . I will hand you your goddamn . . .”
“Hey, it wasn’t my fault! All I was suppose to do was pick up. Nobody toll me . . . “
“Keep your voice down, idiot. You should have damn well . . . “
“Yeah, yeah, right and what would you have . . . hell of a thing to find.”
“ . . . could have dumped the damn thing anywhere but where you did, Kyle. Help me with . . .”
“What the hell was I supposed to . . . “
“Right, and the guts truck was your great, big hot shot idea, idiot.”
“Stop calling me idiot. We fixed it didn’t we?”
“No thanks to you. And you waited long enough to . . . Damn, that was rank.”
“Not my fault.”
“No, nothing is ever your fault, Kyle. I don’t know why I cut you in on this . . . stupid, fu . . . “
Then a lot of bumps and bangs I figured for hatches closing but it could have been one of the thumping the other.
Very soon they would be leaving the boat and coming up the ramp. I had to get out of there quick. It must be just about time I get to work anyway, so I backed out to the street, then turned and sprinted down the sidewalk to where I could duck into a doorway to catch my breath.
Whoever they were (and I had a pretty good idea that one of them was Eddie Singer, the thug who had kicked me off Float 3) they had dumped something unpleasant at sea. That was clear enough. I remembered the police report about the smelly guts truck. I didn’t want to think about what that might have been.
I had to talk to Mert as soon as possible whether or not Marj had done any smoothing of the ruffled feathers. He had to hear what I had to say because I had a hunch things were heating up unpleasantly. I thought I had identified the smugglers. Now I needed verification. I hoped that verification was on a memory card either in Mert’s possession or tucked in a tall bronze lighthouse bank back at the Lens Building.
I was fifteen minutes late for work.
“I’m so, so sorry, Cindy!” I said as I exploded up the stairs to Bev’s.
“Wow, what did you do, sleep in? You are usually early.”
“Bad dream and then a bad commute. I’ll tell you some time.”
I hung up the damp jacket and tied on my apron and pinned on my name tag. Another day, another dollar. I really ought to retire to a desert island, I thought. At my break between the breakfast rush and the lunch rush I fished the piece of paper out of purse, took a deep breath and punched in the number.
“Mert, do not delete this! Please! This is Cora Jane Dooley (As if he did not know that! I mentally kicked myself for six kinds of a dope.) Please do not delete this message without calling me. I need to talk to you right away. Please! It is so important.”
God, had I included enough pleases? I terminated the call, feeling as if I had just done the most hopelessly futile thing but I crossed all my fingers and toes. And if I had been so inclined I would have prayed to all the gods and goddesses that ever wore a raggedy toga that Captain Merton would actually call me back.
He did better than than. He came to lunch. Right after noon Mert walked in as if nothing had ever happened, hung his baseball cap on the wall hook and sat down at his favorite table by the window. When he caught my eye he raised his hand in a salute, smiling. Had he gotten my message? If not, had he decided on his own to cut my some slake and give me another chance? With a wildly hammering heart I grabbed a menu and headed his way.
“Morning, Dooley,” he said.
“Captain Merton,” I replied. “Our soup and sandwich special today is tuna melt and tomato soup. How about if I bring you a cup of coffee?”
“Yeah, I could do with a cup of coffee, “ he said, opening the menu. “Pretty foggy out there isn’t it? Can’t see my hand in front of my face.”
Oh no, I suddenly remembered I left my bike leaning against a lamp post down the street. Well, if they can’t see it they can’t steal it. And who would steal that rusty mess of spokes and peeling paint anyway?
What the heck was I blithering about?
“So, have you decided?” I asked.
“Yeah, I have decided hear you out, Dooley.”
“Wonderful. Where and when?”
“Your call. Should I come here?”
“Too many curious ears,” I said. “How about if we meet at the marina? At your boat? I left my bike down there somewhere this morning and I had better go locate it. Four o’clock, okay?”
“You bike is down at the marina? What were you doing at the marina this morning - looking for me?”
“No. I was taking fog pictures. Anyway there were some strange doings down there this morning - I got spooked and left my bike. I will tell you about it later,” I said. “What are you having for lunch?”
“I will go ahead and have the soup and sandwich special,” he said. “What spooked you? Should I be worried about my boat?”
“No, no, it was on Float 3. A couple of guys having a row. I thought I had better exit before they saw me. That is all. Probably nothing. Lots of fog and an active imagination.”
“Hmm. Mysterious. What the heck is a ‘fog picture’ anyway?”
“Oops, better get busy and pass your order on to Cindy.” I scooted off to the kitchen. I had just seen Eddie Singer come in the door and I did not want to wait on the man.
“Cindy, guess who came to lunch? Mert.” I said. “He wants the lunch special. Say, I have to visit the restroom. Eddie Singer just came in - could you get his order for me?”
“Singer? Wish I could afford to turn away business. He always means trouble. But okay, I will see what he wants.”

My bike was not where I thought I left it but the fog was still thick and disorienting. I walked up the embarcadaro all the way to Float 9, which I knew I had not passed that morning, then back the other way, feeling the whole time like I was being followed. Fog plays tricks on the mind, softens edges and sharpens the senses all at the same time. I was beginning to dislike fog. I like to know where things are.
My footsteps sounded unnaturally loud. I stopped opposite the Maritime Museum, listening to the fog horns’ mournful moo. Thick in the air was the salty tang of changing tide. I walked on toward Float 3. I thought I saw a flash of red that might have been my bike near the railing at the mouth of the ramp. The ramp itself disappeared into the depths of the mist. I hurried. Mert would be at his boat waiting for me.
I did not reach the bike. A gloved hand clamped my mouth shut, another hand gripped my arm, pinning it behind my back. I was propelled toward the ramp down to Float 3.
“I warned you about nosing around my boat,” hissed the voice in my ear.

Wherever he threw me the floor was moving. Or I was woozy from the knock on the head he gave me. Seemed he had only one way of controlling people. I assumed he was the one who clubbed Mert. Most likely with a fish club. Very effective. I did not think he did any great damage to my head. At least not yet. He had no intention of letting me walk on home.
It was dark wherever I was and smelled of fish and something else. I could guess that it was a lingering aroma of the package they dumped overboard last night. My hands were duct taped in front of me, which meant that I was next on their list as crab food. But they had not taped my feet, which was curious. I was thinking that they - and I could hear two voices from above my head - had been interrupted before they got me hog tied good and proper. They were not very good at this. But good enough - I was in trouble unless I could figure out a way to free. I assumed I was in the hold. Or the engine room - the sound of the engine was very loud as if it were in the same space they had put me but there was no light at all. I might be down a well for all I knew.
The voices were the same two I had heard that morning in the fog. Eddie Singer and the one he had called Kyle. They were casting off, that much I could make out from the tone of voices barking back and forth. And they were getting underway in a heck of a hurry.
To be continued ...

OCTOBER ALREADY/RV-GO DOWN TO THE SEA continued

October, and it's time for me to begin thinking about this year's National Novel Writing month project which begins at midnight on 1 November. This will be my third novel and second in the RV-GO series: tentatively titled RV-GO TO WRACK AND RUIN. Though the actual writing of it can't begin until the virtual starting gun is fired, it's within the rules to have a rough idea of plot and a sketchy outline.

So that's what I'm working on right now. The novel is based on a personal family tragedy I have wanted to write about for some time. Five years ago I had to step in to rescue my mother's younger brother who was suffering from dementia and had become the victim of elder abuse and neglect. Yesterday was Uncle Bud's 92nd birthday - now he is safe, living in a wonderful nursing home a few miles from our house but five years ago he was wandering the streets of Corvallis Oregon, abandoned by his own son, bankrupt and starving. He had been cheated and robbed of everything he had including his dignity. A total stranger (my uncle's neighbor) contacted my mom who "volunteered" me as rescuer. Quite unexpectedly I found myself driving down the coast to check up on an uncle I hardly knew, and to do what??? I had no clue what I would or could do about the situation. If I had any plan at all it was that I'd set things straight, get my useless cousin to take care of his own dad, and get myself home.

If I had known what I would find when I got down there and what the next five years would be like for me would I have turned around before I reached Portland? And given the same circumstances what would Cora Jane Dooley have done? We'll both find out as I put her into much the same situation in RV-GO to Wrack and Ruin.

But for now, here's some more of RV-GO Down to the Sea:
Oh my God! Looking down at my camera, the realization hit all at once. I knew where Carl’s photos were! I was absolutely certain. Alice and I had been looking for photographic prints. But that wasn't the format his shots were in. Carl may have been retired but there was not anything outdated about the camera gear I saw through his cabin window the day I went out there. It hadn't registered with me at the time but remembering back to what I had seen on the wide dining room table I knew that Carl took his hobby seriously - had kept up with the technology of his art. He was using digital photography to capture his boat and seascapes. If he took night photos of the marina they would be on a memory card. A memory card that was approximately the size of a quarter. Something that would fit easily through the slot of a piggy bank. Or in this case a lighthouse shaped bank to which his best friend Mert held the key.
The genius of what the old man had done stunned me. If he had told his murderer that he had given copies of the photos to a friend of his in case anything happened to him, he told the absolute truth. If Carl came to harm who would open the Ashes Fund bank to scatter his remains at sea? Mert, his best friend. And when he did and found the memory card . . . or had he already found the card? Had he opened the bank when Carl was killed? If so, did he find it? Did he know what it was?
I had to find Mert. But first I called Alice at the gift shop where she was working late on the last of the inventory. I wanted to race right out and go looking for Mert but she brought me back to reality. It could wait. There were a few considerations to attend to first - for one, I had to go to work in the morning.
For another thing, Mert might not react well if I descended upon him in full gale. I took a deep breath. One thing I wanted to know was whether Carl’s body had been released to a funeral home. Alice said she would call around during the day and see if the police would at least tell her that much. She could claim that as his “boss” at the museum she would like to plan a memorial service.
She also gently suggested that even though I might have come up with a plausible scenario, it was still an airy nothing without concrete knowledge that the memory card existed in the first place, and that Carl hid it in the Ashes Fund.
I thanked her for bringing me back down to earth once again. It seemed as if lately I was constantly flying of into the stratosphere like a faulty weather balloon.

Blurry eyed I hung my purse on the lower hook beside the walk-in freezer, shrugged out of my jacket and hung it on the higher hook.
“Before you say anything, C. J., I don't feel pink today,” said Cindy as I turned.
Her hair was a spiky platinum halo that made her head resemble a dandelion gone to seed.
“It is . . . really different,” I said. “What's going on?”
She didn't look like a happy camper. Cindy’s face had that drawn, gray look that would have been worrisome on a woman twice her age. Something bad had happened.
“Mom is not doing so good. I think I'm going to have to get her into one of those assisted living places.”
“I am so sorry, Cindy.”
“Yeah, well, I knew I couldn't keep her at home forever,” she said. “Aunt Marj kept saying Mom needed more than I had time to do for her. Guess she was right. I got home last night and she was sitting on the floor by the bed. She didn't want me to help her but what can I do?”
“Is there any thing I can do? Maybe check in on her when I get off work?”
“Thanks, but I don't know what Mom would think about someone she doesn't know coming around. I am having enough trouble convincing her she needs more help than just me. Wait ‘til I tell her I think she needs assisted living! She is going to go ballistic.”
“Could Marj help to convince her? I get the impression your Aunt Marj does pretty well on her own, but she must have some kind of help around the house. Maybe she knows of a household aid or something that would take the pressure off you.”
“Yeah, Aunt Marj has a nurse’s aid who comes in to help her with showers and all the rest of the bathroom stuff. But I think Mom would hate that. She has always been so damned independent.”
“Cindy, I'm sure your mom would not want to trouble any one but there comes a time that things have to change, you know?” I said. “We all need someone else to help us from time to time.”
I wondered how true that was. Hadn’t I been trying to go it alone myself for quite some time? But it sounded good - something that Oprah would have approved.
“Say, Cindy, I wanted to talk to Marj about something else entirely, so if you would like I could put a bug in her ear . . . “
“I wouldn't turn that down right now,” she said. “Might work, coming from an outsider. Not that you are an outsider - I did not mean that!”
“Ah, but I am an outsider. Still, I see what you mean. A third party.”
“Right. That was what I meant to say. A third party.”
“Do you think Marj will be in the charter office this afternoon? I went looking for her the other day and Garvin’s was closed up tight.”
“She was probably at her doctor’s. They are gearing up to give her a new hip,” said Cindy. “You might try later. There is not much business this time of year so she doesn't open all that often. I'll give her a call later and see if she's coming into town.”
“Thanks, Cindy. I appreciate that,” I said.
“Don’t mention it,” she said, putting a batch of bacon on the grill to fry. “Could you flick on the open sign? I think it is about time we feed the thundering herd.”
“Sure. Although it has been pretty quiet recently.”
“Yeah, too quiet. I think people are still a little shook up about Carl. You know, with someone still out there. Makes people nervous.”
“Hey, kind of on the same subject, has Captain Merton been in for dinner recently?”
“Not that I know of. Of course I'm in the kitchen mostly.”
“Well, sure. Just wondered.”
“Are you guys still on the outs? I thought he had better sense than to keep you out in the cold.”
“That was what I wanted to talk to Marj about,” I said. “I want a chance to talk to him but I know if I call his cell phone he's not going to answer as soon as he sees who's calling. I wondered if Marj could talk to him about it - get him to at least hear me out.”
“That is pretty damned juvenile, if you ask me. Him, not you.”
“Tell me about it. But he just lost his best buddy. He must be devastated.”
“No excuse to take it out on you,” she said, turning the bacon.
We had a reasonably busy breakfast shift. The shipyard was going strong on a new yacht for some Saudi prince. From what I gathered the whole thing was rare wood, silk, and gold plated plumbing. Must be a nice life, I thought. Here, I go into blissful raptures if I get a twenty percent tip on a ten dollar plate of ham and eggs, and this guy sinks a couple of million dollars on a shower stall. It is a very funny world.
When the last person straggled out after lunch, I grabbed purse and jacket, punched out and went downstairs to see Marj Garvin.
“Cindy said you would be comin’ down. So what ya got on your mind, girl?” She had wheeled out from the back room at the first tinkle of the shop bell.
“This and that,” I said. “Most of it having to do with your partner, the elusive Captain Merton.”
“Cindy told me you two had a scrap. What’d that lummox do, pinch your tush?”
“Wish that was all it was. Marj, do you mind if I sit down for a minute? I have been on my feet since four a. m.”
“Damn! Where the hell is my manners?” she said. “I swear I get dimmer every day. Just ‘cause I am already sittin’ down is no call to keep ya standin’. Come on in the back. Got a nice comfy desk chair my Earl used to say was the best chair ever built.”
I followed her wheel chair on back to the charter office. The office was a blizzard of papers but the chair she pushed my way was one of those big squeaky oak office chairs with leather seat and back. My grandfather had one of those in his office when I was a kid. Sitting down in Captain Earl’s chair flooded my mind with remembered smells I associated with Grandpa - Old Spice, cigars, blotter paper. Who knows what all made up those wonderful masculine, comforting scents?
“Earl had very excellent taste in chairs, Marj,” I said.
“He had pretty good taste in everything, my Earl - especially women, or so I kept telling him up to the day he died. Fine man, was my Earl. Lousy businessman though. He would have been the first to tell ya that. That was one of the reasons he married me - so he had someone runnin’ the business end of things while he took folks out for tuna and salmon. Boats, he knew just fine. Fish, he knew.”
“They say a wise man knows his own limitations,” I said.
“No truer words were ever spoken,” said Marj. “Now that we got you comfy in the chair, what is this beef you and Mert got going?”
“You know that Mert got bashed on the head, right?”
She had heard the whole story of the boat being ransacked and the house being broken into, so at least I did not have to rehash the whole chronicle. She had not heard that Carl’s cabin had been torched.
“Damn, that is plain crazy. What the hell is happenin’ around this town anyway? You sure it was not a plain old accident?”
“I'm not sure. I just think it's too strange a coincidence to be a coincidence. Alice Burnbaum - you know, the woman from the museum - thinks so too,” I offered. “Actually so does Mert - but he's dumping the blame at my door. His take on it is that since I am the new kid in town, I have to be behind all this mayhem.”
“If that is not the craziest thing I ever heard it's a close second. How does he figure you did all that on your lonesome? You don't look like much of a Jack the Ripper type to me, girl.”
“I think he is grasping at straws,” I said. “I wondered if you'd try to talk some sense into him, Marj? At least get him to agree to talk to me. If I call him on the phone, he'll just hang up.”
“I can try. He is one stubborn man when he wants to be,” she said. “Now, how ‘bout tellin’ me why you care what that man thinks of you, Cora Jane Dooley.”
“Normally I wouldn't care one wit, however I need some information from him,” I said. “I have an idea about why Carl was killed. It's pretty far fetched but without Mert’s help I don't see how I can prove or disprove it.”
“What is this idea you have?”
“I don't think I should say yet. It's still in the rough stages. And as I say it might be worthless.”
“You suspectin’ me?
“No, of course not! But Marj, if I am right, then anyone with the knowledge might be in danger. Think of what happened to poor Carl. I don't want to say too much until I know whether I'm onto something.”
She chuckled. “No need to get all defensive on me. I was just foolin’ around. Sure, I'll give Mert a jingle for ya. And he better listen to me - for once.”
“Thank you, Marj, you are a sweetie!”
“Wouldn't want that to get around. It might ruin my reputation as a tough old bird.”
“It's our little secret,” I said. “One more thing, do you happen to know anything about . . . well, whether there is going to be a service for Carl?”
“Nope, no service. Carl was not one for any kind of fuss,” she said. “Mert took him out just the other day.”
“Took him . . .”
“Off the coast near La Push. Carl always liked La Push. Scattered his ashes out in the ocean,” said Marj. “Mert set out soon as the funeral home gave us the call to pick up the box.”
Oh no, I had been right the other day when I found that Angel Face was not in harbor. She was on a run off shore to scatter someone’s ashes, all right. Carl Heslop’s! Mert had no doubt already opened the Ashes Fund to help pay his expenses. Though I would not know whether he had found a memory card in there or not until I could talk to him. If he was willing to tell me, which I now doubted he would.
There was no reason to tell Marj about the lighthouse bank or (at this point) purely mythical memory card. I would have to let her try to talk Mert around to seeing me first. I had to wait. I hate sitting around twiddling my thumbs waiting for other people to do things. It flat drives me crazy. But there was not a thing I could do about it. Mert was entitled to his opinion and his privacy. - he did not have to have anything to do with me. By now he may have printed off the photos (if there were photos) and decided to destroy them and the memory card to protect the memory of his friend. That was certainly a possibility. It depended on what was more important to him - protecting Carl or finding his killer. That decision was not mine to make.
* * *
In the dream, I have lived on the small cabin cruiser tied at the end of a long dock for many years - then someone I do not know gives me three dogs - one large black curly haired animal, a medium sized white short haired dog, and a small gray wire haired dog - they run all over the boat yipping and tumbling and shedding fur all over the boat - I have never owned a dog and do not know how to take care of them - know I need dog food so I go to the store and overwhelmed by the variety of foods - do not have any idea what I should buy - there seems to be different foods for different kinds of dogs and I can’t imagine what kinds of dogs I have exactly, only their size and color, which is not the kind of information I need - but I buy many small bags of many kinds, with the hope that I will by chance have the right food for the right dog, and that perhaps the dogs themselves will know what the proper food is for their needs - back at the boat the dogs have ruined the boat with fur and dirt and dog messes everywhere on the smooth teak decks - they will not come to me - I cannot get the three dogs to stop running full tilt over the decks - fear they are going to fall off the boat into the water - fear my friend will come back and find I am not caring for the dogs - fear the dogs will hurt themselves or me - the teeth flash, the dogs growl at each other - should they be washed, I wonder - I have heard that dogs need to be washed and walked - but where do I walk the dogs on a small cabin cruiser if not on the decks or the dock but should I not have leashes to control them so they will not fall off into the water - I do not know and the days are going by and the three dogs are looking lean and filthy - they look at me with hungry eyes and foul breath - I take to sleeping up on the bridge with a chain link gate to keep the dogs out - at night I hear them prowling the decks, snuffling and scratching - I give up sleeping altogether, have decided to cast off at first light, head out to the open sea and sink the boat into the black depths.
* * *
I woke with a start, irritable and cramped up. My pillow had somehow fallen off the bed and the sheets were in a knot. Turning on the bedside lamp I took a hard look at the alarm clock. Two-thirty a. m. I wondered just what were my chances of getting any restful sleep before the alarm sprang into action at four. It did not seem promising. I shut off the alarm and got out of bed.
By three in the morning I was peddling into town through heavy fog. At first I had entertained a vague idea I might try out my camera on night shots at the marina before I had to clock in, but I doubted I would get much in the way of photographs in that gummy, icy haze. Our fog having crept back during the night I had only a few bike-lengths of visibility. Carl Heslop might have taken fog shots in stride I had no idea if my camera was capable of such challenging lighting. I knew it was beyond my amateur abilities. It was tucked into my jacket pocket though, just in case I got the urge to experiment.
There were no twinkling harbor lights tonight - or should I say technically morning, though dawn was at least four hours away. The light standards along the embarcadaro struggled to dispel some of the darkness but made little more than orange lollipop blobs of glow that did not quite reach the pavement. The sleeping boats were ghosts lost in opaque mist. I sat down on a damp memorial bench, glad of the length and thickness of my olive green jacket.
The last tendrils of my dog dream faded slowly. I had never liked dogs. They are slavish and demanding and have disgusting habits. I am a waitress - I am an expert when it comes to slavish, demanding, and disgusting animals.
What had prompted the dream I could well imagine. I had too many unruly forces pulling me this way and that, too many people I was trying to help or hinder as the case may be. Less than a month out of Boise and I was hip deep in disaster and destruction. So much for some quiet moments by the rolling sea. Perhaps I am not suited for calm reflection.

THE PLOT THICKENS/RV-GO DOWN TO THE SEA continued . . .

(Rainbow Over Condo Construction)


The Stock Market seems to have caught my flu and died this week. Whether it was the fever or a sudden attack of sanity, I sold almost all of my portfolio right down to my principle so as to preserve capital - it was the principle of the thing (sorry). At least I won't lose my core investments. Around here we are all hunkering down, hauling out our grandparents' Great Depression recipes. Beans, rice, bone soup. Buddy, can ya spare a dime?

At work the cancellations are starting to roll in. Several of my clients are mid-construction on new or renovated condo complexes. Have you ever seen photos of Old West Ghost towns? You have the idea. Funding has dried up, would-be buyers are nowhere to be seen. The Tonka Toys are silent, workers gone home to their rental units.

And now today Washington Mutual has gone the way of buggy whips. So terribly sad, it's hard to find anything positive to say except that we Americans are a hardy, creative, adaptable bunch - adapt or die! We've been through worse and we will survive these tough times. Today in Writers' Workshop my 94 year old mom shared her memories of the Great Depression - of five years working seven-days a week for $1 a day, eating two small meals a day, living in a charity boarding house run by the Volunteers of America - and being thankful for such bounty!

Now this week's episode of RV-GO DOWN TO THE SEA:
Chapter 6
To say I was disappointed was an understatement. I had envisioned emerging from the museum waving a fan of incriminating photographs all the way to the local police station. Even though I knew that the photos were not likely to solve the murder for us, they would at the very least provide a motive for the murder.
Alice and I left the museum glum and hungry. The easiest solution to the later was to walk around back of the museum and across the street to the Inn of the West Wind. The special was pot roast. I dived in like a refugee.
“What do we do now?” I asked my dinner companion.
“Not too much to do, as I see it,” replied Alice, between bites of tender meat.
“There must be something. I feel so . . . I don’t know, stymied. I thought sure I was on the right track.”
“It was not a bad theory actually, Cora Jane,” she said. “The problem is that maybe there were other, better theories we just are not seeing yet.”
“You are right - even though that felt like a pat on the head. There are a million scenarios we have not even entertained. I just got stuck on this idea and could not see beyond it.”
Remains of the pot roast congealed on my plate, reflecting perfectly the mood of the moment.
“In a way I am relieved,” said Alice.
“Why is that?”
“It would have been quite a responsibility to hold such dangerous information. What use would we make of it, do you think? If we found a photograph showing . . . I do not know, people coming off a trawler at midnight for example, what would that actually prove, C. J.? A thing like that could be explained in so many ways, none of which have anything at all to do with Carl’s death.”
“True,” I said. “But if Carl had been so sure the photos showed illegal activity and acted on that belief he could have ticked someone off sufficiently to lash out.”
“Yes. He could have waved it under the wrong person’s nose. It might never have had a thing to do with extortion - only anger. Like a barroom brawl gone too far.”
“In which case we might never know what happened . . . unless forensics comes up with DNA evidence. Or an eye witness.”
The waitress tried to refill our coffee. Both of us waved her off. Though we were both so wired from disappointment neither of us were likely to get any sleep tonight, with or without coffee.
Alice shrugged. “Well, at least we tried. I keep saying that to myself as if it is going to help me feel better. It is this feeling that nothing can be done that drives me mad. I hate being powerless. How do I go on with my day to day, leaving the dead behind? It is the bain of historians not to be able to let go.”
I could have told her that historians had no patent on having trouble letting go. There were so many things I wanted desperately to leave behind me in the dust but they stuck like road tar on a hub cap.
* * *
My brand new digital camera had all the bells and whistles but not one single photo on its memory card. I took the lens cap off, turned it on, checked all the settings against what the instruction booklet recommended for interior shots, aimed it at my living room and pushed the button on top. The room lit up and the camera emitted an official sounding click. Oops, I had forgotten to check the view on the little screen. Never mind, this was practice. I checked the screen. Yes, everything looked to be in its proper place. I snapped off another then saved my itty-bitty bathroom for posterity before turning my photographic brilliance on the kitchen. By the time I got around to the bedroom I was getting the hang of it and was just about ready to take the camera on the road. Or at least outside the RV.
I ran around like a dervish snapping all angles of the RV-GO’s boxy body. Close up of weeds between the tires. Wide angles of the single wide mobiles lined up like race horses champing in the paddock. Ron, from next door was out walking his bull dog and had to submit while I tried my hand at animal portraiture. After I had maxed out the memory card I went back inside to see if I could figure out the camera to computer interface. There was a kind of cradle I nestled the camera into which connected to one of the computer’s USB ports. I managed to find iPhoto, clicked here and there until my computer was happily displaying sharp close ups of the ugliest bull dog on the coast. Satisfied that I had the gist of the process I was raring to head for the marina, camera snug in my jacket pocket.
But was I getting ahead of myself? Action for the sake of action - action to keep ahead of despair? I hauled myself up short and sorted out the tangled cords pulling me in all directions. Cords that had nothing to do with power outlets and USB ports. I was still fixated on the marina. What did I think was going to happen if I showed up with my handy camera? Were all the perps going to parade down the boardwalk for me to capture? Did I think I could camp out opposite Float 3 until I saw what Carl saw? What a fool’s paradise I was living in these days. What I needed was a big dose of nature. I shoved my camera in the olive green jacket, pulled a wool watch cap over my head, grabbed my bike and set off down the road toward Grays Harbor Lighthouse Park.
Once out on the dunes, the guttural groan of an ocean cradling me like the heart of a mother, I began to hum a nameless melody as I walked along through the pure clinging sand. The rain of yesterday was a memory. Streaks of blue teased openings in the fat clouds. But it was cold so near the water. My nose burned with the freshening wind. I changed camera settings with ridged fingers, pointed the lens down the length of the bleached beach. Everything lined up. The textures of tire tracks in wet sand, prints of racing dogs and barefoot owners, sand pipers stalking on stick legs in and out of the surf - I studied the light and how it changed in the window of my camera with every inch I moved right or left. Drank in the thin sun bouncing on the curling water and the rich shadows seeping beneath the silver logs.
I watched the slow receding of the tide toward its lowest point, without knowing when exactly that occurs or how to tell when the flow back in begins. Was this wave pulling back now from that broken rock the farthest it will come today?
My hands clenched the camera feeling resistance as the shutter sucks what it can of the scene. Before I know it the memory is full and the beach is twice as wide as it had been when I arrived. Gulls wheel in close and photogenic just as I run out of space. I retrieve the bike and turn for the path back past the lighthouse.
Plunging into a sea of night I retreat like the tide, carrying my captured moments like a smooth stone in the depths of my pocket.
Once home, I empty the tiny box of images into the safe harbor of my hard drive.
Oh my God! Looking down at my camera, the realization hit all at once. I knew where Carl’s photos were!
TO BE CONTINUED . . .