Chapter 2
Indians called the Island ‘Bu Teu,’ which means ‘sea person.’ Fist-sixed clay pebbles washed ashore on the west end of Fox Island often resemble the shapes of birds, fish, animals, and even infants. Legend labels them Mud or Clay Babies. According to Indian legend, a beautiful princess spurned her own kind and married the handsome son of the Old-Man-of-the-Sea. Underwater lifestyle so changed her she could no longer visit her parents on land. So, when she is homesick for her former people, she tarries near her favorite beach, forming small clay figurines that wash ashore. She leaves her artwork behind to be found by adventurous pilgrims who scout along the sand and mud.
But then, not everyone sojourning on Fox Island has time to explore the beaches.
Tony burst through the kitchen doorway, still dressed in his all-black running gear. Sweat streamed down his face. “What time’s that interview?”
Price glanced up from her Hannah Whitall Smith devotional book. “So what do you think of this? ‘Man’s part is to trust, and God’s part is to work.’”
Tony grabbed a red-and-yellow striped beach towel and twirled it into a twist. “Of course, that depends on the context,” he shrugged. “If you’re talking about salvation, it’s on the money. But if someone uses it as an excuse never to do anything, to just sit on his duff and wait for his ‘welfare blessings’ from the Lord, then it’s kind of shallow.”
“Thanks for the theological lesson of the morning.”
“Do I hear a twinge of sarcasm?” Tony briskly wiped his free and neck. Tufts of hair stood up, making him look like a middle- aged light heavyweight boxer after a tough first round.
Price sighed deeply. “For as long as I’ve been a Christian, I feel like I do so little for God. I do a lot of busy work for the church, but I never seem to talk about Him to others. I guess I keep looking for some grand God-given task.”
“I’m not sure we all get something grand, spiritually speaking. But we keep busy, that’s for sure.” He tossed the beach towel across the deck railing. “Is that interview at 10:00?”
“What are you going to wear today?”
“What difference does that make? It’s on radio.”
“But we’re going to the Yacht Club luncheon benefit. I don’t want us to clash.”
“Honey, I absolutely don’t care. You pick something out.” He flung open the refrigerator door and stared at a half-empty gallon of nonfat milk and a dozen radishes floating in a container of water.
“I’m going to wear my teal skirt and silver blouse... and maybe my silver boots,” Price informed. “How about you putting on that teal green shirt with the southwest design and your silver Apache scarf?”
“Nah, I don’t want to wear that.”
“Tony, you just said it didn’t matter.”
The back door squeaked open and slammed shut. Tony and Price stared down the hall.
“Hi, guys, it’s just me. I’m headed downstairs to the shower.” Robe-wrapped in royal blue, Melody Mason disappeared down the knotty pine stairway. A scent of something sweet and sour from the kitchen followed her.
“One weekend. She was only going to live in the garage a single weekend.” Tony hauled out a nearly empty carton of orange juice hiding behind the nonfat milk.
Price grabbed his arm and ushered him to the bay window. “It’s only been eight days.”
Sea gulls circled the narrow strip of rocky beach stretched beyond the lawn. A boy and dog chased the birds with a stick, then ran next door.
Tony plopped down in a brown canvas director’s chair, took a swig of juice, and untied his running shoes. “When she said ‘garage apartment,’ I figured there would surely be a bathroom out there. Day and night we never know when she’ll pop in.”
“It is rather distracting.” Price stood behind him and rubbed his neck and shoulders. “But she said she’s moving in with Kim on Wednesday, whether or not this Amigo guy leaves.”
“What time was that interview?”
As Tony quaffed the last of the juice, Price stepped back into the kitchen and returned with a bright pink notepad.
“Here’s what Liz gave me. Ten o’clock with WBAC from Boston. The host is Shari LaPointe....”
“Do we know her?”
“You remember Shari... last April at the booksellers convention? She wore the dress made of book covers.”
Tony’s eyebrows raised. “Oh ... that Shari.”
“The bleached blonde who said, ‘Oh, Tony, I want you to know I purposely put the cover of Shotgun Creek close to my heart.’”
He jumped up, shoes and socks hanging from his fingertips. “I can’t believe she’s in radio.”
“I can’t believe I’m letting you do this interview.”
“When did you say she’s going to call?”
“In twenty-five minutes.”
Tony poured Rattlesnake Blend coffee into a blue enamel tin cup. “You want to listen in on the extension?”
“Nope, but thanks for the offer. I’ll be tied up going through old newspapers. I read the strange book on the Jessica Davenport paintings, about famous pieces of original art hanging on the walls all around you. Of the dozen samples they mentioned, ten are here and two at the museum.”
“Anything we can use?”
“You mean, besides the fact the great prisoner escape of 1952 happened on Anderson Island instead of Fox Island?”
“I still can’t believe that.”
“We made the mistake of going by the newspaper account. The story broke during the night. Seattle papers got word the standoff happened on Fox Island, so that’s the way it was printed. The news services picked it up before the retraction appeared.”
“But how did it get in that book we read?”
“The author must have read only the Seattle paper account. We happened onto a first printing that had the error. They say all subsequent printings changed to Anderson Island.”
“But that was one of the strong points of coming to Fox Island,” Tony complained. “It provided us with an angle, an entry, a little excitement. Now that whole scenario’s gone.”
“We’ll find another hook. I get the feeling there’s something here we haven’t discovered. There’s plenty of potential.”
“I think I like writing fiction better than nonfiction. Did I ever tell you that?”
“In the last ten days?”
Tony banged several cupboards and drawers. “Where’s the foil?”
“Above the refrig.” Price pulled half a bagel from the toaster and smeared it with strawberry preserves. “Hey, I did find a place called Smuggler’s Cove, but no one really knows why the name.”
“I could make something up.”
Price laughed brief but hearty. “I’m sure you could. But please, don’t. When the world-famous novelist Anthony Shadowbrook gets through with Fox Island, the place will sound as intriguing as, say, Fall River Mills. Every summer it’s the same thing. We wonder if we’ll ever find enough fascinating data for a book. Somehow we manage. ‘Man’s part is to trust, and God’s part is to work.’”
“That’s exactly how that phrase can be misused. We’ve got to do our work and trust God to do his work.”
“You fell for that bait.”
“Are you going to flog me with that line all summer?”
“Maybe.” She grinned. “Now, what are you going to wear to the luncheon?”
“I decided on the green shirt with southwest print. How do you think the silver Apache scarf will look with it?”
“Stunning, I’m sure. Did anyone ever tell you what excellent taste in clothes you have?”
“Never.” He kissed her forehead and turned toward the door. “I think I have time for a shower before the radio interview.”
“You better not. Melody’s downstairs. Remember? Not enough water pressure for two showers at once.”
He threw up his hands. “Sort of like bringing the girls along after all. Guess I’ll drag the laptop out to the deck and clean up that section on the Indian occupation of the Island.”
“Take the remote phone. You can do the interview out there. Only...”
“Only what?”
“Watch out for dive-bombing sea gulls.”
Barefoot and still wearing black jogging shorts and black t-shirt that read “Cheyenne Frontier Days,” Tony studied the strip of McNeill Island appearing out of the distant fog across Carr Inlet. He couldn’t believe they didn’t escape over there. He could see it now: armed and desperate men fighting the currents, breaking into a small cabin dripping wet ... in the dark of night. Terrified, pajama- clad children clutching their mother’s gown as a frightened father gropes for his now-broken glasses so he might see his attackers and face a violent challenge to protect his children and defend his wife’s honor.
Why didn’t that happen on Fox Island?
He could write a chapter like that in four hours. Now, a week’s worth of research and writing would replace it. He needed to be reminded why he was writing this book. That is, besides spending time alone for the summer with the most beautiful woman in the world. Maybe that was a good enough reason.
“Isn’t it great out here?” Melody suddenly stood beside him, wrapped in royal blue and topped with white head turban.
“Summer’s a great time. How’s the rest of the year?”
“Foggier. Colder. But each season has its beauty. Say, did you get a chance to read my story yet?”
“The one about the hot dog stand?”
“Yeah.”
“Eh... I think Price is reading it now. Listen, Melody, I don’t want to sound rude, but I’m doing a radio interview in just a minute. So, I’ll need a moment to collect my thoughts.”
“Oh, wow! What station is it? Maybe I could tune in.”
“I don’t think so. It’s WBAC in Boston.”
“That is so cool. Isn’t it great being a writer? I can’t think of anything I’d rather do. Tell Dr. S. I’ll be ready to go in about forty minutes.”
“Oh? This morning?”
“I’m giving her a Davenport tour of the Island ... all the places connected with my family.”
“You’re not going to interview your grandmother today, are you? I wanted to sit in on the first public visit with Jessica Davenport in fifty years.”
Melody rubbed her hands together, then tried to wind the turban tighter around her head. Several dark locks of hair sprawled from the top and she nervously tried to stuff them back in. “Actually... I know I told you about getting an interview. But Grandma Jessie just hasn’t been doing too well. Old age and crankiness and such. I’m not sure she’s up to the interview.”
Tony shrugged. “I understand. We do have all summer.”
“Yeah, well...” Melody stuck one crimson-nailed foot out of her navy slippers and reached down to scratch a toe. She peeked back at Tony, lips pinched tight together before she said, “I told Grandma Jessie about you guys wanting to talk to her, and she sort of, you know, blew up. She started yelling and screaming and stuff.”
Tony’s eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry it disturbed her so much.”
“It’s okay. Really. She has her good and bad days. I’ll wait for a better one. When she’s okay, she remembers the old days real good. Isn’t that weird? She can’t remember what happened yesterday, but she can describe every moment of June 2,1942.”
“What happened on June 2,1942?”
The telephone rang. Melody spun around and ran down the stairs. “I’ll tell you later, Mr. S. Have a good interview.”
“Hi, Daddy... it’s me.”
“Kath? What’s up, sweetheart? I’ve got a radio interview any minute now.... “
“I’ll make it quick. Did Josh call you last night?”
“No. Was he supposed to?”
“Well, he said he would, but I knew he wouldn’t. He promised to call from the hospital.”
“Good grief. What happened?”
“Some props gave way or something out at Rawhide, and he broke his arm. Only a slight fracture, that’s all. He’s okay, and their insurance covers the whole thing. I thought you’d want to know. Talk to you later... have a good interview.”
“Kath... wait....”
He gaped at the buzzing instrument.
The sliding glass door rolled open. “Is your interview over?” Price stood there, brushing her hair, which looked dark brunette in the shadows.
“They haven’t called yet. That was Kath. Josh had an accident at Rawhide last night and busted his arm.”
“I knew it. I hate when I’m right about impending disaster. Where is he? I’ll call him.”
“Kath said it was minor. Could we wait until after the radio interview?”
“We need two phone lines.”
“You want the phone? Go ahead and use it. Listen, babe, I couldn’t care less about this interview. Who wants to talk to some blonde in a cardboard dress?”
Price grabbed her purse off the kitchen counter. “I need to buy bread and juice at the market. I’ll call Josh from the pay phone.”
“Melody said her grandmother wasn’t up to an interview. I guess she even got hostile about it.”
“Oh, brother. We aren’t going to get a Jessica Davenport scoop?”
“Not today. Melody figures sometime in the next few weeks it will work out. Her grandmother sort of bounces in and out of reality.”
“Don’t we all?” Price dug in her purse and pulled out her car keys.
The phone rang again from the deck railing.
“That will be WBAC,” Tony said.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“Tell Josh I’ll talk to him later. Find out what doctor he went to. Maybe we can find out what really happened.”
“Answer your phone. Your public is waiting.” Price blew him a kiss.
“Hello, Tony Shadowbrook here.”
A male voice on the other end startled him. “Tony! Man, am I glad I finally caught you.”
“Are you with WBAC in Boston?”
“No, I’m your stepping-stone to incredible fame.”
“If you’re selling something, we’re definitely not interested. I either already have it, or don’t want it. I’m really busy.”
“Wait, this is Terry Davidian.”
“Who?”
“Terry Davidian of Terrance Davidian and Associates. I talked to your son and daughter last week.”
“Son and daughter?”
“I was at your house in Scottsdale. I guess I just missed you. Kathy and Kit, if I remember.”
“Daughters. They’re both girls.”
“Oh, my, well, one was, eh, one was under the car. There was grease and...”
“No problem. Look, Davidson, I need...”
“Davidian. Terry Davidian. Formerly with Michael Ovitz.”
“Davidian, I’m scheduled for a radio interview right now. I’ll have to call you back.”
“I’m on the road, so let me call you. I’m just north of Portland... driving up 1-5... how about us doing lunch on Fox Island? You name the restaurant and I’ll meet you there.”
“No restaurants on this Island, Davidian. Besides, I have a previous commitment. Maybe you ought to talk to my publicist. Her name is Liz....”
“No, no, no! Tony, my main man, I didn’t drive over twelve hundred miles to talk to a publicist. This is big, real big. I’ll check back with you later. Save me some time in your afternoon schedule.”
“Yeah, right.”
Tony pecked at his laptop computer on top the redwood table, the cordless phone on the bench beside him. He flipped through the pages of a locally published book entitled How the U.S. Government Covered Up a Japanese Submarine Invasion of Fox Island, written by a man named Harvey Peterson, who claimed the credentials of “Supreme Commander of the Fox Island Chain Saw Militia.” As far as Tony could determine, they had a membership of one.
The guy ought to be writing headlines for tabloid rag sheets. Who read this boring stuff? Surely no one believed it. But he probably sold more copies than Tony’s latest novel. Why did writing with integrity never sell as well as garbage? They kept telling Tony if he’d write his stories to be more violent, sexy, and vulgar he’d sell more copies. But his goal was to write the last, decent bestseller that could be read aloud to a sixth grade class without shame. Maybe after the River Breaks series, he’d do a historical saga to end all sagas.
Minutes later he stared across the waters of Carr Inlet. He could faintly hear water sloshing and bubbling against the driftwood and beach. An acrid vegetable smell stung him, like stewed chard, pot herbs, and rancid sea plants.
“Radio! Where is that interview?” He punched familiar numbers into the phone. “Liz? Tony here.”
“Where are you?”
“Fox Island.”
“You’re supposed to be on the radio.”
“That’s what I thought. They never called. Check it out for me, would you?”
“I confirmed it with LaPointe yesterday. Don’t go away. I’ll see what’s happening.”
“Hey, do you know an agent named Terrance or Terry Davidian?”
“Book agent?”
“Movie agent.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Yeah, well, call me back about the interview.”
He poured another half cup of Rattlesnake Blend and the phone rang.
It was Liz. “Tony, Shari LaPointe got fired last night from WBAC, and no one knows anything about the interview.”
“Fired?”
“Yeah, isn’t that nice? And you won’t believe what for.”
“I don’t want to know.”
“Good. Anyway, they offered to re-book you next week. What do you think?”
“Tell them to forget it. I’m too busy with this Hidden West project.”
“How’s it coming?”
“Slow. By the end of summer I’ll be ready to write Standoff at Rifle Ridge. Listen, I’ve been thinking about...”
“That reminds me, Brock said he needs a story synopsis and some cover ideas for Standoff.”
“Tell him I’ll have no idea what’s going to be in that book until late September.”
“I’ll tell him you’re working on it.”
“Liz, I’m not working on it yet, but I’ll meet the deadlines. Don’t I always?”
“In your fashion. Look, if you can jot down a paragraph on a couple possible scenes, it will keep them happy a while.”
“Have a grubby Houston riding a Tobiano horse pointing a ’73 Winchester carbine at some unseen enemy.”
“What kind of horse?”
“A paint. You know, basically white with dark patches.”
“We’ve already done that one, so send me a little something when you get a chance. Meanwhile, if an agent shows, remember the publishing house and I both need to be brought in on the deal.”
“Right.”
“One other thing. They finally got a photographer hired for Fox Island. Fax me a possible photo shoot. I’ll line it up.”
“I’ll tell Price. She handles that.”
“Have a good week. Boy, I envy you two. Famous writers spending every summer at some different remote exotic resort, while I slave away in the hot, humid city. Bye.”
A sea gull swooped over the patio and deposited unusable parts of its breakfast in the middle of the redwood table. “Lord, there are lots of ways you can keep me humble. That’s not one of my more favorite ones.” Tony gathered the phone and computer, scooted into the house, and headed straight for the shower.
The Yacht Club benefit consisted mainly of Tacoma and Seattle socialites who owned a cabin or boat slip on Fox Island. The buffet style luncheon featured piles of smoked clams and baked oysters, shrimp jambalaya and hot crab dip, open-faced sandwiches and tiny, slimy hors d’oeuvres. Seaweed pudding filled long wooden bowls and double chocolate mousse was shaped like sail boats.
Tony finished his sixth “Oh, I’ve never met an author before” conversation when Price tugged at his elbow. “Excuse me, Mr. Shadowbrook.” She tilted her head and batted her blue eyes. “But you remind me so much of ... my father.”
“Come on, you. We’re going for a walk.”
“What? And leave all your adoring fans?”
“There aren’t three people here who’ve ever read one of my books, and that includes you and me.”
“Where are we going?”
“To look at the boats.”
A slight breeze pushed fluffy white clouds out Hale Passage toward the Narrows. The air reeked of fish and salt and clean sweat. Sipping from plastic glasses of lemonade, they wandered along the rough wooden docks and boat slips.
“Tell me what Josh said,” Tony quizzed.
“It happened in the stunt where Josh chases Paul to the top of the barn and they end up with the somersault into the wagon.”
“Yeah?”
“There was a scrap two-by-four tossed on the gigantic air mattress, and Josh caught the board when he landed.”
“But he’s not going to take some time off?”
“No, he insists he’s fine. He’ll wear leather cuffs and that will cover the brace.”
“I don’t suppose his mother could talk him out of it?”
“Not a chance. He did mention there’s a new girl in the act. She has an awesome smile.”
“Oh, joy, another sweet young thing who’s going to try to keep up with Josh Shadowbrook. You know what I don’t under-stand, babe? How did two sensible, reasonable, rational people end up with a daredevil son?”
Price slipped her arm into his. “I told you. Josh believes every one of his dad’s books. He intends to live just like your heroes do.”
“He should read Fox Island. That should calm him down some. I still haven’t captured a heartbeat for this place. But there might be something to all the Prohibition-era guests that stayed at the Longhouse.”
“You think it was a West Coast organized crime retreat center?”
“I guess I’m hoping it was. In the old days it was fairly simple to smuggle goods into the Sound. Lots of fog. Lots of islands. Lots of harbors. What about your trip with Melody?”
“Doesn’t look too good about getting the interview with Jessica Davenport. I find out she’s really ticked at Melody for renting the house to us.”
“Great.”
“The whole family seems dysfunctional, bordering on tragic. She’s an identical twin, you know.”
“Melody?”
“No, her grandmother.”
“Mr. Shadowbrook!”
Tony shaded his eyes toward the dock. A tall, thin woman with a black hat, black silk stirrup pants and heels approached them. A wide silver bracelet above the elbow reflected darts of sun rays. A squat, balding man with a yellow bow tie followed behind, munching pretzels in the shape of Mount Rainier. She held out her hand. “I’m Sheila Lenore from Bellevue. This is my Richard. He’s in enviro-safe sludge removal.”
Without a glance at Price, she huddled close to Tony, like a vulture moving in on its prey. “Could I get you to sign my copy of Shotgun Creek? Just put, ‘To my good friend Sheila, love Tony.’ I read all of your books, and I have to say Shotgun Creek is my favorite. I especially like the way you bring Jake and that Indian girl ... What’s her name?”
“Tukawa.”
“Their little scene up in that aspen grove... oh, my, makes my heart flutter just to think of it. Doesn’t it, Richard?”
“Yes, dear. It sort of reminded me of when we were on the cruise to...”
“Thank you so much, Anthony. You know, I once stood in line for three hours to get John Grisham’s autograph. This is much easier, isn’t it, Richard?”
“A trifle, yes. Of course, Grisham was in New York and it was...”
“Well, I’ll leave you alone. Who did you say this young lady was? Is she related to you?”
“Yes, she is.” Tony slipped his arm around Price’s shoulder.
“Oh, my, I’ll bet you are very proud of your father, dear.”
She dawdled toward the clubhouse as Richard turned back to whisper, “Keep writing those books. It keeps her busy.”
Tony shook his head as they disappeared. “Sometimes I wonder who I’m really writing these westerns for.”
Price held a cup of ice to her forehead. “I think she was a delightful woman, with quite a discerning eye.”
“That’s not the first time someone’s called you my daughter. Makes me feel like a lecherous old man... or an extremely lucky one. Now, tell me more about Mrs. Davenport.”
“Mrs. Reynolds. That’s her married name. Jessica and her identical twin sister, Jill, were born and raised right here on Fox Island.”
“Identical twins. That would be different. Do you think we’d have gotten two like Kathy or two like Kit?”
“Two Kits, and I certainly wouldn’t look nearly so young, Mr. S. Anyway, as Melody tells it, Jill and Jessica always dressed identical. They were the darlings of the Island folks in the twenties and thirties. They were co-queens of the Fox Island Fair and Pageant from 1932 to 1941. That’s when Jessica did most of her paintings.
“I did learn something very fascinating. You know how most of them are ‘Two Girl...’ paintings?”
“What do you mean?” Tony asked.
“The titles. ‘Two Girls in a Mirror,’ ‘Two Girls at the Lake,’ ‘Two Girls Shopping.’ There’s always a full view of one girl and her reflection in every one?”
“Yeah, that’s what made them so popular.”
“Well.” Price whirled around to face him. “It really is two girls. Jessica painted herself as the girl and her sister, Jill, as the reflection.”
“That’s an interesting touch. I’d never heard that before. That will give us some previously unpublished data. That’s great, babe. This is more like it. Anything else?”
“They went to college at Radcliffe.”
“Somebody had some bucks.”
“Their father once owned most of downtown Tacoma. Anyway, they were going to school in the East, and one June, on their way home from college, they were in a car wreck in Council Bluffs, Iowa.”
“Hey, that wouldn’t happen to have been on June 2,1942?”
“How did you know that?”
“Melody mentioned her grandmother could always remember what happened on that date.”
“Jill was thrown from the car and killed. Jessica was driving, and I guess she still blames herself for her sister’s death.”
“And she’s been reclusive ever since?”
“Yes. She even refused to paint anymore.”
“Because there was no more reflection? This is good stuff, darlin’.”
Price glanced up toward the clubhouse. “Looks like someone else has spotted you.” A man in a navy blazer waved a nautical hat at them from the patio, thick hair blowing slightly, left hand cupped to his mouth.
“Shall we return to the party, Dr. Shadowbrook?”
“Do you need me to help you... Father, dear?”
“Mr. Shadowbrook?” the man on the patio called again.
“He seems quite insistent.” She waved to the man and gently tugged Tony along the dock.
At last they stepped up to the awning-covered deck adjoining the clubhouse. The man hurried up to them; his blazer boasted anchor brass buttons.
“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Shadowbrook, but there’s a tele-phone call for you. Said you should call back immediately.”
“Who was it?”
“A Mr. Davidian. Terrance Davidian of Hollywood.”
“Honey, did I tell you he called from Portland this morning?”
“He’s quite tenacious.”
“How in the world did he know where I was?”
The man with the brass buttons pointed to a burgundy phone sitting on a metal table next to a purple and blue Japanese iris arrangement. “You can take the call out there.”
“I can call him some other time,” Tony told him.
Price nudged him. “Maybe you’d better check it out. He must have thought it was important to track you down at the Yacht Club.”
Tony sighed and plopped down in the metal deck chair, almost tipping over the bouquet. He pulled off his sunglasses and strained to read the slip of paper. Price rearranged the flowers.
“Verne’s Garage and Espresso, where getting an oil change never tasted so good. This is Verne, Jr. What can I do for ya?”
“Eh, maybe I dialed the wrong number. Is there a Terrance Davidian there?”
“Who?”
“I must have misdialed. I’m calling Terry Davidian.”
“Oh, yeah, that Hollywood guy. Just a minute. He’s eating lunch out of the candy machine.”
Tony signaled for Price to join the other guests.
“Hey, Tony, big guy... Terry, here. Sorry to pull you away from the social scene, but your research assistant said I could find you here.”
“Research assistant?”
“Yeah, a Miss Mason, I believe. Here’s the deal. I wouldn’t think of putting a bind on you like this, but wouldn’t you know it, my car busted just as I was coming across the bridge. Now old Verne, here, said he could have the thing fixed by dark, but I said, ‘Hey, why waste time waiting in a garage, even though the espresso is every bit as excellent as that on Rodeo Boulevard. So, if I could talk you into coming over here and giving me a lift to your beach cabana, we could spend the afternoon going over the details of that movie deal.”
“I have the afternoon scheduled. Maybe you should talk to my publisher first.”
“Tony, baby... whew! Don’t get me wrong. I’m on your side. There’s no reason for you to give them the lion’s share of this deal. If you got just two hours, I can show you how you can spend next summer in your own house in Malibu. Comprende? Are you listening, Tony?”
“And you need a ride from the bridge?”
“Right. I’ll be waiting here at Verne’s.”
“I don’t remember a garage on the Island. Just where is this Verne’s?”
“Stone Drive exit right as you come down off the bridge.”
“Exit? What bridge are you talking about?”
“Hey, Verne, what’s that bridge called? Oh yeah, it’s the Tacoma Narrows Bridge.”
“The Narrows Bridge?” Tony groaned. “I thought you meant the bridge to Fox Island.”
“Thanks, partner. I’ll treat you to a cup of mocha supreme. How long before you’ll be here?”
Tony looked at his watch. “At least an hour. Maybe two.”
“What?”
“I’m in the middle of a benefit, remember?”
“Oh yeah, right, one hour it is.”
“Or longer. I’ll send my research assistant. She’ll pick you up.”
“That’s cool. But, Tony, I wouldn’t tell her what’s happening here. I wouldn’t want this to leak out to the media. Not yet any-way. You know what I mean?”
“Sure. No problem. Miss Mason will be driving a big Olds- mobile.”
“What color?”
“White.”
Tony found Price surrounded by several men, big diamond rings sparkling. All seemed to be talking at once. They continued blustering even as she slipped away. “Who’s the guy with the camouflage jacket and the hand- painted tie that looks like a giant redwood?” he asked.
“Harvey Peterson, the one who wrote the book.”
“The cover-up of the Japanese invasion?”
“Yes. We do have that, don’t we?”
“Oh yeah, it’s pretty weird.”
“Well, I thought we did, but Harvey said if we’d stop by his bookstore he’d give us an autographed copy.”
“He has a bookstore on the Island?”
“From what I could tell, it’s in his garage. Mr. Peterson says they sell through the mail and at gun and militia shows all over the country. So, what about the big movie deal?”
“The only thing we agreed upon was to pick up Davidian at the Narrows bridge.”
“Pick him up? Is he hitchhiking?”
When Tony explained the scenario, she suggested, “We could always send our ‘research assistant’ in her VW bus. I don’t think it would make it back over that bridge again.”
“Wouldn’t help. He’s on this side. He’s only going to be here an hour, an hour and a half tops. Then we’ll have Melody take him back to good old Verne’s. At least I’ll get him out of our hair.”
They left the party a little past 2:30 P.M. Soon after their arrival at the Davenport house, Melody backed the big Olds out of the tiny garage onto the narrow, steep driveway. She rolled down the window as she braked short of the rosebushes. “Thanks, Mr. S., for not getting mad about the research assistant thing. Seemed like the right thing to say at the time.”
“That’s all right. We appreciate your doing this for us.”
“I’ll hurry right back.”
“No. Take your time and be careful.”
They watched her chug up the steep drive and then turn left on Third Avenue. Then they sauntered to the deck, arm and arm. “Do you feel like a writer today, Mr. Shadowbrook?”
“Yeah, like a frustrated writer with no time to write. I’ll be glad when things settle down and we can get some serious days’ work in. Remember when we used to think that all a writer had to do was write?”
“This summer will be different. The girls are at home. We’ve got a beautiful view of the Sound. I look forward to good days on the book and long sunset walks hand in hand along the shoreline. Do I need to fix dinner for this Davidian guy?”
“Absolutely not. Tell you what. We’ll sit here on the deck. After an hour if I get to pulling on my right ear, you get up and come over and say, ‘Tony, don’t forget you have another appointment in five minutes.’”
“What other appointment?”
“Mrs. Shadowbrook, would you like to hike with me down to the point to look for Clay Babies?”
“Certainly, Mr. Shadowbrook. When do you want to go?”
“About five minutes after I start pulling on my right ear.”