I apologize for the hiatus and the complete abandonment of my word count. Last week I started my vacation, ready to forge ahead. Then I got sick, my computer's power cord died, then my Internet modem died, then I hurt my shoulder. Obviously the gods were trying to Tell Me Something.
But now I'm back, and my computer and I are both hale and hearty. I've joined a gym to keep my shoulder limber and I'm ready for action.
But wait ... isn't it Nov. 30?
Well, this is admittedly true. Minutes once flown can never be recalled, or whatever. But how can I abandon the good citizens of Winslow?
So I've set a new deadline for myself — Dec. 31 — and will trudge on. I don't have a cool wordcount bar like nanowrimo, but I'll keep a running tally. I wil also post chapters and record my progress.
Good luck to all you fellow Nanos on the last day of November!
Monday, November 30, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Chapter Three
Well, I'm slogging along tonight, bloody but unbowed. Thank you, everybody, for the encouraging words. I'm breaking every Nano rule in the book — Write Every Day, they say, Don't Revise, Don't Do Research, Don't Use Contractions ... and so on. Yup, I'm a rebel.
Meanwhile, here we are at Chapter Three. It only gets weirder.
CHAPTER THREE
GO TERRIERS
The wide, white-painted double doors on the other side of the antechamber stood open, framing the courtroom inside. Leda’s sneakers made no sound, but Luther’s footsteps tapped behind her on the hardwood floor, an oddly comforting sound. Light streamed in from two 8-foot windows on either side of a small, framed Michigan flag. The furnishings were spare, shiny and neutral: the walls were beige, the moldings were white, the floors, chairs and railings were light-colored wood. The paintings were small, dark and boring, carefully matted in identical frames.
Leda had only been there once. Before the whole Lesson Plan Debacle, Uncle Fred had taken her on a grand tour of Winslow historic sites: the Courthouse, the Train Depot, Winslow’s statue, the Kootchikoo River exhibit. Everyplace except the Goosey Mansion, where Uncle Fred wasn’t allowed any more after they caught him excavating in an upstairs bathroom during a Historical Society Tea.
The courthouse was as much a yawner as it was a year ago, with one rather large exception: Police tape was wrapped around the jury box and Chief Bronson himself was bent over it, taking pictures of something inside. The curved wood of the box’s spindly chairs looked like faces frowning in disapproval.
She wanted to look anywhere but inside the jury box, so she looked at the floor. Nothing to see, of course — the courtroom had no carpets, no cushions, no frosted lamps, nothing comfortable or welcoming. This was a serious place, a place of stern judgment, all smooth white plaster and faded 18th-century land deeds under glass. Uncle Fred had spent a lifetime preserving that world — how could such a life end in violence and despair?
Chief Bronson looked up from his clicking camera. He was a large, bluff, hearty man with a tanned face and a thick shock of white hair. In mid-October he was usually to be found in a tree north of town with his hunting bow. Once bowhunting season ended it was time for rifle hunting, then ice fishing, then bass fishing. Police business rarely interfered with his outdoor pursuits.
Except today. Bronson looked down at Leda from the step beside the witness box. Wrinkles creased his face from worry and fatigue. "Thank you for coming, Miss," he said. "Not much to look at, I'm afraid. Nasty scene, single gunshot wound.” He pointed to a bagged gun on a nearby podium. “A 4th-grade class from Goosey Elementary arrived for a field trip this morning. They found him.” Bronson, shook his head regretfully. “Too bad. I wanted to spare you, but Luther here insisted."
Leda cautiously approached the box and peered in. Uncle Fred lay doubled up on the floor, his eyeglasses crooked, his thin mouth pulled back in a grimace, revealing yellowy teeth. She couldn't see the wound, but telltale red stained the white paint of the box's interior and the neck of his light brown jacket below his straggly brown-gray hair. He needed a haircut. His hands were clasped as if in prayer.
She didn't remember falling, but suddenly she was sitting on the floor with her back against the box and Luther was giving her cold water in a tiny Dixie cup.
"What's the point of this?" Chief Bronson was asking testily. "It's as plain as day here. Why don't you take the poor girl home?"
"She’s all right," Luther said. "Miss, there's something we want you to look at."
"What, there's more?" she asked.
Kneeling before her, Luther held out a piece of white Winslow Historical Society stationary in a clear, gallon-sized Ziploc bag. "We found it on the chair next to him."
Leda sipped her water as she looked at the single page. At the top was the society’s elaborate, dark blue logo: A figure of Victory with her sword and scales surrounded by an outline of a simple pointed building (presumably the courthouse), all inside a large W.
Below that were a few handwritten lines in thick black ink. The words were written clearly, actually with almost picky care, like a schoolboy's handwriting practice. Every word was precisely spaced, with the tail of the letter "g" dangling exactly one-quarter the size of the circular part of the letter.
---
10-13-07
I am a big fat liar. I don't deserve to live. Go Terriers.
Fred Stark
___
Leda looked up at Luther, standing over her like some blond specter, and Bronson, who just looked bored. "He wrote this?" she asked.
"It's his handwriting," Bronson said. He set down his camera and flipped through some papers. "Matches the writing here, some kinda speech ..."
The chief began reading aloud: "There is a kind of magic at the Winslow Historic Courthouse, glittering in the light, with artistry in every chair, every stair step and every hand-hewn poplar plank ..."
Bronson looked up, slightly appalled, then cleared his throat. "I also got this half-finished letter to the Centennial Farm Program."
"The what?"
He pulled out a stiff piece of stationary. "Yup, the Centennial Farm Program by the Michigan Historical Society. Fred was telling them that the old Darbee place is technically a Sesquicentennial Farm, not a Centennial Farm, and so it oughta get a blue ribbon with a 150 at the ceremony, not a red ribbon with a 100 —"
"I thought the Darbee farm was 140 years old," Sam said.
'Well, Fred says that's wrong, because the Darbees planted some apple saplings — oh, who gives a shit?" Bronson exploded. "That's his handwriting! Poor Fred here had a guilty conscience, he had to have some secret goings-on somewhere. Makes sense — nobody can be that into Winslow history —"
"What kinds of goings-on?" Leda asked.
"Who knows? Maybe he stole something. Or found something. Maybe he had a woman somewhere."
"Uncle Fred?"
Bronson gave her the smile of a village police chief who's seen it all. "You'd be surprised, Miss Morris."
"Yes, I would," she answered shortly. "I can't believe Uncle Fred would commit suicide. Look at this note — big fat liar? Go Terriers? It doesn't even sound like Fred!"
The chief quickly stacked his papers on the edge of the witness box, obviously offended. "I've given you my professional opinion here, and I'll stand by it. I've known Fred Stark a long time, and it doesn't give me any pleasure to say this, but he obviously had some problems we didn't know about." Bronson picked up the camera and crammed it into its case. "Now if you'll excuse me, we're mighty short-handed over here, so —"
Leda scrambled to her feet. "You don't have to take my word for it, Chief. I watch Fox as much as anybody. I bet a nice forensic anthropologist would clear all this right up."
Bronson's face turned red. "Oh really, you think so, do you?"
"Sure — or if you can't swing that, just do some swabs and check them for DNA. Or fingerprint the gun. Hey!" Leda pointed to some dirt on the floor. "Look at that! Fred would never allow that dirt on his hand-hewn poplar planks!"
Luther stepped forward, giving the purpling Bronson an uneasy look. "Miss Morris, are you saying that you think Mr. Stark was murdered?"
"Well, he didn't kill himself," Leda said stubbornly. "General Winslow's birthday is in 10 days. He'd never miss that."
The two men looked at each other a moment, then stared back at Leda. You could almost see Luther mentally riffling through every sordid gunshot murder case he could remember. Chief Bronson looked for patience in his camera case and apparently found it.
"Miss Morris ..." he said, "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but we're not a big-city outfit here. Forensics cost money. We don't have the money for a pathologist, a DNA test or even a decent goddamn camera! It's only October 14 and our police budget is in the red by $15,000. We've been in the red since July! No non-essential funding from the village until Jan. 1."
"Winslow has a big deficit," Luther said mournfully. "Overspending in every category. The state won't give us any more money."
"But if Uncle Fred —"
"That man there—" Chief Bronson stabbed a stubby finger toward the witness box. "That man there committed suicide. Very sad, but it's the truth. I don't have the manpower, the equipment or the resources to chase some half-cocked theory without evidence."
Leda looked down at the crumpled corpse in the witness box. She didn't really know Fred Stark, but he was a historian. A real historian. Careful, methodical, detail-oriented. To shoot himself in his beloved courthouse, bleeding all over this meticulously sanded and restored witness box — Fred never would stain this glossy little building's reputation in such a way.
"He wouldn't do this," she said. " She raised her head and glared at Chief Bronson. "At least he would've laid down a tarp first."
Bronson threw up his hands. "I'm finished here. This is a suicide, Miss Morris, and I'm reporting it that way. And I would take a very dim view of any ... shall we say ... rumors to the contrary."
"But Chief—"
"Luther, escort the lady out of here. Thank you for your time, Miss Morris."
Meanwhile, here we are at Chapter Three. It only gets weirder.
CHAPTER THREE
GO TERRIERS
The wide, white-painted double doors on the other side of the antechamber stood open, framing the courtroom inside. Leda’s sneakers made no sound, but Luther’s footsteps tapped behind her on the hardwood floor, an oddly comforting sound. Light streamed in from two 8-foot windows on either side of a small, framed Michigan flag. The furnishings were spare, shiny and neutral: the walls were beige, the moldings were white, the floors, chairs and railings were light-colored wood. The paintings were small, dark and boring, carefully matted in identical frames.
Leda had only been there once. Before the whole Lesson Plan Debacle, Uncle Fred had taken her on a grand tour of Winslow historic sites: the Courthouse, the Train Depot, Winslow’s statue, the Kootchikoo River exhibit. Everyplace except the Goosey Mansion, where Uncle Fred wasn’t allowed any more after they caught him excavating in an upstairs bathroom during a Historical Society Tea.
The courthouse was as much a yawner as it was a year ago, with one rather large exception: Police tape was wrapped around the jury box and Chief Bronson himself was bent over it, taking pictures of something inside. The curved wood of the box’s spindly chairs looked like faces frowning in disapproval.
She wanted to look anywhere but inside the jury box, so she looked at the floor. Nothing to see, of course — the courtroom had no carpets, no cushions, no frosted lamps, nothing comfortable or welcoming. This was a serious place, a place of stern judgment, all smooth white plaster and faded 18th-century land deeds under glass. Uncle Fred had spent a lifetime preserving that world — how could such a life end in violence and despair?
Chief Bronson looked up from his clicking camera. He was a large, bluff, hearty man with a tanned face and a thick shock of white hair. In mid-October he was usually to be found in a tree north of town with his hunting bow. Once bowhunting season ended it was time for rifle hunting, then ice fishing, then bass fishing. Police business rarely interfered with his outdoor pursuits.
Except today. Bronson looked down at Leda from the step beside the witness box. Wrinkles creased his face from worry and fatigue. "Thank you for coming, Miss," he said. "Not much to look at, I'm afraid. Nasty scene, single gunshot wound.” He pointed to a bagged gun on a nearby podium. “A 4th-grade class from Goosey Elementary arrived for a field trip this morning. They found him.” Bronson, shook his head regretfully. “Too bad. I wanted to spare you, but Luther here insisted."
Leda cautiously approached the box and peered in. Uncle Fred lay doubled up on the floor, his eyeglasses crooked, his thin mouth pulled back in a grimace, revealing yellowy teeth. She couldn't see the wound, but telltale red stained the white paint of the box's interior and the neck of his light brown jacket below his straggly brown-gray hair. He needed a haircut. His hands were clasped as if in prayer.
She didn't remember falling, but suddenly she was sitting on the floor with her back against the box and Luther was giving her cold water in a tiny Dixie cup.
"What's the point of this?" Chief Bronson was asking testily. "It's as plain as day here. Why don't you take the poor girl home?"
"She’s all right," Luther said. "Miss, there's something we want you to look at."
"What, there's more?" she asked.
Kneeling before her, Luther held out a piece of white Winslow Historical Society stationary in a clear, gallon-sized Ziploc bag. "We found it on the chair next to him."
Leda sipped her water as she looked at the single page. At the top was the society’s elaborate, dark blue logo: A figure of Victory with her sword and scales surrounded by an outline of a simple pointed building (presumably the courthouse), all inside a large W.
Below that were a few handwritten lines in thick black ink. The words were written clearly, actually with almost picky care, like a schoolboy's handwriting practice. Every word was precisely spaced, with the tail of the letter "g" dangling exactly one-quarter the size of the circular part of the letter.
---
10-13-07
I am a big fat liar. I don't deserve to live. Go Terriers.
Fred Stark
___
Leda looked up at Luther, standing over her like some blond specter, and Bronson, who just looked bored. "He wrote this?" she asked.
"It's his handwriting," Bronson said. He set down his camera and flipped through some papers. "Matches the writing here, some kinda speech ..."
The chief began reading aloud: "There is a kind of magic at the Winslow Historic Courthouse, glittering in the light, with artistry in every chair, every stair step and every hand-hewn poplar plank ..."
Bronson looked up, slightly appalled, then cleared his throat. "I also got this half-finished letter to the Centennial Farm Program."
"The what?"
He pulled out a stiff piece of stationary. "Yup, the Centennial Farm Program by the Michigan Historical Society. Fred was telling them that the old Darbee place is technically a Sesquicentennial Farm, not a Centennial Farm, and so it oughta get a blue ribbon with a 150 at the ceremony, not a red ribbon with a 100 —"
"I thought the Darbee farm was 140 years old," Sam said.
'Well, Fred says that's wrong, because the Darbees planted some apple saplings — oh, who gives a shit?" Bronson exploded. "That's his handwriting! Poor Fred here had a guilty conscience, he had to have some secret goings-on somewhere. Makes sense — nobody can be that into Winslow history —"
"What kinds of goings-on?" Leda asked.
"Who knows? Maybe he stole something. Or found something. Maybe he had a woman somewhere."
"Uncle Fred?"
Bronson gave her the smile of a village police chief who's seen it all. "You'd be surprised, Miss Morris."
"Yes, I would," she answered shortly. "I can't believe Uncle Fred would commit suicide. Look at this note — big fat liar? Go Terriers? It doesn't even sound like Fred!"
The chief quickly stacked his papers on the edge of the witness box, obviously offended. "I've given you my professional opinion here, and I'll stand by it. I've known Fred Stark a long time, and it doesn't give me any pleasure to say this, but he obviously had some problems we didn't know about." Bronson picked up the camera and crammed it into its case. "Now if you'll excuse me, we're mighty short-handed over here, so —"
Leda scrambled to her feet. "You don't have to take my word for it, Chief. I watch Fox as much as anybody. I bet a nice forensic anthropologist would clear all this right up."
Bronson's face turned red. "Oh really, you think so, do you?"
"Sure — or if you can't swing that, just do some swabs and check them for DNA. Or fingerprint the gun. Hey!" Leda pointed to some dirt on the floor. "Look at that! Fred would never allow that dirt on his hand-hewn poplar planks!"
Luther stepped forward, giving the purpling Bronson an uneasy look. "Miss Morris, are you saying that you think Mr. Stark was murdered?"
"Well, he didn't kill himself," Leda said stubbornly. "General Winslow's birthday is in 10 days. He'd never miss that."
The two men looked at each other a moment, then stared back at Leda. You could almost see Luther mentally riffling through every sordid gunshot murder case he could remember. Chief Bronson looked for patience in his camera case and apparently found it.
"Miss Morris ..." he said, "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but we're not a big-city outfit here. Forensics cost money. We don't have the money for a pathologist, a DNA test or even a decent goddamn camera! It's only October 14 and our police budget is in the red by $15,000. We've been in the red since July! No non-essential funding from the village until Jan. 1."
"Winslow has a big deficit," Luther said mournfully. "Overspending in every category. The state won't give us any more money."
"But if Uncle Fred —"
"That man there—" Chief Bronson stabbed a stubby finger toward the witness box. "That man there committed suicide. Very sad, but it's the truth. I don't have the manpower, the equipment or the resources to chase some half-cocked theory without evidence."
Leda looked down at the crumpled corpse in the witness box. She didn't really know Fred Stark, but he was a historian. A real historian. Careful, methodical, detail-oriented. To shoot himself in his beloved courthouse, bleeding all over this meticulously sanded and restored witness box — Fred never would stain this glossy little building's reputation in such a way.
"He wouldn't do this," she said. " She raised her head and glared at Chief Bronson. "At least he would've laid down a tarp first."
Bronson threw up his hands. "I'm finished here. This is a suicide, Miss Morris, and I'm reporting it that way. And I would take a very dim view of any ... shall we say ... rumors to the contrary."
"But Chief—"
"Luther, escort the lady out of here. Thank you for your time, Miss Morris."
Friday, November 13, 2009
This Guy's Going in the Novel too
Some unemployed small-town bank CEO looking for just the perfect job.
Please feel free to suggest other characters from current events. I'm brewing character soup here.
Please feel free to suggest other characters from current events. I'm brewing character soup here.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Chapter Two
Chapter One has been revised slightly and here it is:
Chapter One
CHAPTER TWO
UNCLE FRED'S CRUSADE
Leda quit rummaging in her purse and stared at the officer, searching his round face for a prankish smile. He had to be joking. But then she remembered this officer — Pete Something. Lived on her street, actually. Nervous type, didn’t leave the police station much. Even writing a parking ticket made him break out in hives.
"Dead?" she repeated. "What happened?"
"I dunno." Officer Pete rubbed his arms. “Man, I feel itchy.”
Leda let her purse fall to the floor of the car, then snatched it up again when she realized the floor was strewn with fast-food bags, old newspapers and sticky candy bar wrappers. She peeled a Butterfingers wrapper off one of her red sneaker as she considered Pete’s news. Uncle Fred? Dead?
“You don’t know what happened?” she asked.
Pete shook his head, then threw the car into drive and inched slowly across the high school parking lot. Students popped up from behind cars like prairie dogs, then ducked down again to avoid detection. Leda started mentally listing names (Was that King William of Prussia behind that Civic?) then asked herself if she really cared. The answer was no.
The squad car turned west onto the two-lane Highway 19, following a rumbling line of fruit trucks. “How – how did he die?” Leda asked.
“Dunno.”
"Didn't you see him?"
Pete turned a shocked face at her, nearly stopping the car and setting off a litany of honking.
"Oh no," he said. "I tried, but ... I felt strange." He pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. "I feel strange now, just talking about it."
"Maybe I should drive," Leda said.
"No, no, I'll be fine," Pete said bravely. The car crawled a few feet, then stopped for a squirrel, then slowly gained speed. "I'd just rather not talk about it."
Leda sighed and looked out of the dirty car window as the car turned right onto Market and slowed further, if that were possible. The equestrian statue of Winslow's namesake. General Josiah Winslow crept into view. General Winslow had moved to the village in 1863, soon after the Battle of Gettysburg, and the residents were so excited to have a real Civil War general in their midst that they renamed the village after him. Gen. Winslow was very old then, and an obvious head case who spent his time in Gettysburg reliving his glory days in the Mexican-American War. The excited villagers didn’t care, though; the town renamed itself Winslow and the venerable general showed his gratitude by dropping dead four months later.
Dead. This month was the anniversary of General Winslow’s death and now Fred Stark was dead too. It was somehow fitting — Fred Stark's devotion to the general had been deep and lasting, bordering on the religious, if not the dangerously obsessive. When Leda first arrived in Winslow the year before, Fred initially hailed her as a fellow historian, his conduit to passing on the town's heritage to impressionable young students. But then Leda limited her local history unit to three days and Fred's participation to one 20-minute lecture. The scorned historian never forgave her. Three days was an insult to West Michigan's legacy, he told Leda in front of her 5th-hour class.
"Three days!" he screamed, while students cowered in their desks. "How can you honor the dreams of our fathers in only three days?"
"They're lucky to have that," Leda told him. "I had to cut two days off the Crusades to make it fit, and that includes the sacking of Constantinople."
But such a concession cut no ice with Fred, who brushed away centuries of Christians in the Holy Lands and stormed out to share his outrage with Principal Seymour. They spent a happy hour complaining about Leda in his office, but Michigan history remained a three-day unit.
“Officer!” called a querulous voice, squeaky with urgency, and a rapping noise. Leda jumped and looked around. Old Mrs. Loomis was trotting beside the squad car, hitting it with her cane. Her adult daughter, Mallory, followed behind, carrying her mother’s purse.
“Speed up,” Leda whispered to Officer Pete. Surely an eight-cylinder police car could outrun a little old lady.
“Huh?’ Pete looked started. “But there’s a stop sign.”
“Yeah, two blocks away, just … oh, forget it.” Pete stopped the car and rolled down the window. Mrs. Loomis looked down at them with satisfaction. She wasn’t even out of breath.
“Good afternoon, Officer, I want to discuss the roadblock by Goosey Mansion!” Mrs. Loomis announced.
Pete cringed. So did Leda. Old Mrs. Loomis had always been a force to reckon with, despite increasing age and eye cataract problems resulting in near blindness. Now a recent surgery had restored her sight and nobody in Winslow was safe. Leda had to admire Mrs. Loomis’ spirit, though. Blue Cross had originally refused to pay for cataract surgery on the grounds that it was a pre-existing condition. For one solid week in January, Mrs. Loomis sat in front of the village health clinic, half-frozen, holding a large sign that said “I may be blind, but I can see through Blue Cross’ lies.” TV Channel 8 out of Kalamazoo came to Winslow to film her. Soon afterwards, Mrs. Loomis got her surgery in Kalamazoo, presumably after Blue Cross saw the PR risk in denying surgery to blind old ladies, although neither Mrs. Loomis or Mallory would talk. Probably a corporate gag order, Leda thought. She wished the village could do something like that.
Leda supposed she should feel good about such social activism that restores rightful benefits to the downtrodden elderly, but the truth was that Mrs. Loomis’ restored sight was a mixed blessing for the town. The staff of Winslow Medical Clinic was no doubt relieved to be spared her daily presence, but that just meant the rest of Winslow had to deal with her.
Mrs. Loomis looked past Pete at Leda and her surgically enhanced eyes widened under penciled brows. “Well, of course I won’t delay you, Officer. You’ll need to get this one to the station at once.”
Leda rolled her eyes. “I’m not under arrest, Mrs. Loomis.”
Mrs. Loomis looked disappointed. “If you say so, dear. Tell me, have you heard from darling Jeffrey?”
“No,” Leda said through clenched teeth. Mrs. Loomis never failed to ask after her ex-fiance.
“I just thought, surely we would hear from the dear boy by now, but perhaps something is keeping him away …” She trailed off, glaring at Leda. There was no doubt in her mind what was keeping Jeffrey Stark away from Winslow, where he was so loved and needed.
“Uh, I’m on police business, Mrs. Loomis,” Pete said. “We’re on our way to the courthouse museum—”
“The courthouse?” the old lady asked avidly. “Police business at the courthouse?”
“Mother,” said Mallory, taking Mrs. Loomis’ arm and trying to draw her away. “Let Pete do his job —“
“But what about the roadblock!” Mrs. Loomis tugged free and banged on the car door again with her cane. “We simply cannot have the street past Goosey Mansion blocked off – the detour takes traffic right down Magnolia Avenue! I haven’t had a moment of peace!”
“Well, it’s for the wedding, Mrs. Loomis — North Main businesses and commercial vehicles only —”
“High school students are driving down my street! Speeding at all hours! Completely out of control!” She banged on the squad car door again to illustrate the loss of control. “Obviously,” she said venomously, looking past Pete to Leda, “these teenagers don’t have anything constructive or educational to do.”
“It’s only until Friday, ma’am,” Pete said. “Mr. Goosey has paid a generous sum to clear North Main and …”
The squad car’s radio suddenly exploded. “Pete!” shouted a crackling voice. “Pete, where the hell are you?”
Pete lunged for the hand-held receiver. “Officer Tartan here. Yes, I have Miss Morris. On my way.”
“Then get moving, damn it!” the radio shouted.
“Yes sir!’ Pete stepped on the gas.
“In my day a girl could get married without choking quiet residential streets with traffic!” Mrs. Loomis screamed as she sprinted after them.
“You’d better drive faster,” Leda said. “She’s catching up.”
The police radio call, plus the sight of Mrs. Loomis in Pete’s rearview mirror, was enough to push the speedometer to 25 mph, a marked improvement. Mrs. Loomis and General Winslow’s statue receded from view, both now blocked by a minivan full of little ballerinas.
Pete turned right on Prairie Avenue and Leda could see the roadblock on the left, blocking access to Winslow’s historic, ivy-covered Goosey Mansion. The Gooseys were Winslow’s first family: still rich from a lumber fortune, hopelessly snobby and avid to slap their name on every building in town. But they knew a nutcase when they saw one, and Fred Stark certainly qualified. The Gooseys rarely allowed access to their papers and antiques and Fred turn up at any large event at the mansion, desperate to catch a glimpse of a genuine horsehair sofa or Goosey family portrait.
Poor Uncle Fred, Leda thought. He wasn’t really her uncle, of course, he was Jeffrey Stark’s uncle. But when Leda first met Fred Stark the year before she was Jeff’s fiancé and eager to please, so she called him Uncle Fred. As a “sixth-generation Winslowite,” he was unimpressed by the smart-mouthed San Francisco girl his nephew was marrying. Leda was certainly no Goosey of the Winslow Gooseys; she was a Morris from the Mission District and her mother’s family lived in Celaya, Guanajuato, near Mexico City.
Fred’s dreams were partially realized. While Jeff didn’t marry a Goosey, he did run off with one, after Leda had followed him from San Francisco to this godforsaken little town. Squatting in a nasty, bug-ridden apartment in the Tenderloin, the bucolic life of a western Michigan farming community was enticing to Leda. They would settle in a white house with a picket fence, rock on a porch swing, raise half-a-dozen children. Leda could trade the sullen city classrooms of Polk High School for small-town classes of eager, well-scrubbed students. Jeff would write the Great American Novel and they would build him a little writing studio overlooking the Kootchikoo River.
Those dreams lasted six months. They had to live with Jeff’s daffy sister Candace in their old family home (just until the Novel sold for a hefty advance, of course). Leda discovered that all teenage classrooms — urban, rural, suburban, Martian — were sullen and Jeff discovered that talking about the Great American Novel was a lot easier than writing one.
Six months was all it took for Jeff to rediscover all the reasons he’d left Winslow in the first place. His regular fits of existential despair, which never failed to impress the South-of-Market café crowd, only inspired total incomprehension in Winslow and a few fresh-baked fruit tarts. It wasn’t that they weren’t welcome — on the contrary, Jeff was embraced as a returning hometown hero, fresh with tales of the dissipated big city, a walking symbol of the superiority of small-town life. Women left pies on the doorstep and stopped Leda in the street to tell stories of Jeff’s antics as a child. Old men smiled when she said hello and kept her up to date on the current time, temperature and latest barometer reading.
Yes, Winslow was a welcoming place ... until Jeff drove off in their only car with Angela Goosey back to San Francisco, where he would write content for a new dot-com that created online graves for pets.
Which left Leda in Winslow, teaching history and living in her ex-fiance’s sister’s house. She was no longer Winslow’s golden girl; she was now Jeff’s Reject, the shameless city woman who chased their beloved hometown boy away. No more cherry pies on the porch, no more framed cross-stitch samplers for her future married life. Everywhere she went in the village, she felt eyes measuring her, reassuring themselves that it was Leda, not Winslow that was just Not Good Enough.
“We’re here,” said Pete, breaking into such happy thoughts. She could see the tall, white Greek Revival pillars of the 1839 courthouse through the squad car’s dirty window. The lilac bushes along the side of the building looked bedraggled in the slanted October sun.
Somebody rapped sharply on the driver's window. Officer Pete squeaked in fear, knocking against the gearshift by mistake. The squad car rolled forward and the cop squeaked again and threw the car back into park. Then he rolled down the window.
The shadowed face Officer Sam Luther, backlit by the late-afternoon sun, filled the window. "Thank you for coming, Miss Morris," Luther said. "Tony, what time did your shift start?"
"Uh, 8 this morning."
"OK, Chief says you're off the clock. Seven-hour days until further notice."
"Oh maaaan ..." the cop whined.
“I know, Pete.” Sam slapped him on the shoulder and walked around the car to open Leda's door. She scrambled out, clutching her purse and a folder of ungraded Franco-Prussian War tests. She wished she'd dressed better that morning; in anticipation of war games on the football field, she was wearing jeans, tennis shoes and a red Winslow High School hoodie. It probably served her right, Leda thought, after years of playing “Midwest or Lesbian?” at airports. Now she went around in clothes that she wouldn’t have cleaned the garage in, back in San Francisco. At least she wasn't wearing a kitten sweatshirt. You had to draw the line somewhere.
Sam Luther, on the other hand, was meticulously dressed, his brown uniform pressed and perfectly creased. He had the face and build of a typical small town football jock, all shoulders and blond hair and a broad, tanned face. But Sam was a spooky guy, a tremendously talented policeman, the type of cop who probably could get in the mind of a serial killer and feel the emotions that prompted him to bludgeon fitness freaks to death with frozen Crystal Geyser water bottles.
"Why am I here?" she asked. She knew Fred Stark was an old bachelor, but surely there was somebody better to identify the body than his nephew’s despised ex-fiance.
"We need you to look at something," answered Sam, his pale blue eyes burning, imagining, no doubt, the mass grave that might be under the red brick pathway to the courthouse.
“Officer Luther …” Leda hesitated. She didn’t know this man very well. Jeff had always referred to him as Sam Loser, a small-town rent-a-cop who wouldn’t leave even after his marriage ended.
She swallowed. “Is Uncle Fred really —”
Luther nodded. “He left a note.”
Leda’s folder suddenly opened, scattering history tests on the cold dirt ground. She knelt without thinking, stuffing the papers back into the folder, instinctively trying to keep them in alphabetical order: Archer, Baker, Banham, Dressel …
Luther was beside her, gathering up the rest.
“Um, give me Kilbourne first,” she said. “Now Longbourne …”
Suicide. Leda had never considered suicide. The Fred Starks of the world didn’t commit suicide. They didn’t flail around looking for Meaning in Life, they had their meaning, they were a link to the past, holders of a sacred trust, protectors of faded photographs and genuine pinewood hat holders everywhere.
“Where’s Kristie Van Plew’s test?” she managed to ask. “Oh good.” She stood and stared up at Luther again. “Why?”
“We’re hoping you can answer that,” he said, heading up the brick path.
Leda trotted after him to the historic courthouse. The building's door, pillars and steps were painted white and shone bright against the red brick walls. Even the grout between the bricks looked freshly scrubbed, and knowing Fred Stark, probably was.
They were now on the courthouse steps. Luther opened the tall door and ushered her inside.
Chapter One
CHAPTER TWO
UNCLE FRED'S CRUSADE
Leda quit rummaging in her purse and stared at the officer, searching his round face for a prankish smile. He had to be joking. But then she remembered this officer — Pete Something. Lived on her street, actually. Nervous type, didn’t leave the police station much. Even writing a parking ticket made him break out in hives.
"Dead?" she repeated. "What happened?"
"I dunno." Officer Pete rubbed his arms. “Man, I feel itchy.”
Leda let her purse fall to the floor of the car, then snatched it up again when she realized the floor was strewn with fast-food bags, old newspapers and sticky candy bar wrappers. She peeled a Butterfingers wrapper off one of her red sneaker as she considered Pete’s news. Uncle Fred? Dead?
“You don’t know what happened?” she asked.
Pete shook his head, then threw the car into drive and inched slowly across the high school parking lot. Students popped up from behind cars like prairie dogs, then ducked down again to avoid detection. Leda started mentally listing names (Was that King William of Prussia behind that Civic?) then asked herself if she really cared. The answer was no.
The squad car turned west onto the two-lane Highway 19, following a rumbling line of fruit trucks. “How – how did he die?” Leda asked.
“Dunno.”
"Didn't you see him?"
Pete turned a shocked face at her, nearly stopping the car and setting off a litany of honking.
"Oh no," he said. "I tried, but ... I felt strange." He pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. "I feel strange now, just talking about it."
"Maybe I should drive," Leda said.
"No, no, I'll be fine," Pete said bravely. The car crawled a few feet, then stopped for a squirrel, then slowly gained speed. "I'd just rather not talk about it."
Leda sighed and looked out of the dirty car window as the car turned right onto Market and slowed further, if that were possible. The equestrian statue of Winslow's namesake. General Josiah Winslow crept into view. General Winslow had moved to the village in 1863, soon after the Battle of Gettysburg, and the residents were so excited to have a real Civil War general in their midst that they renamed the village after him. Gen. Winslow was very old then, and an obvious head case who spent his time in Gettysburg reliving his glory days in the Mexican-American War. The excited villagers didn’t care, though; the town renamed itself Winslow and the venerable general showed his gratitude by dropping dead four months later.
Dead. This month was the anniversary of General Winslow’s death and now Fred Stark was dead too. It was somehow fitting — Fred Stark's devotion to the general had been deep and lasting, bordering on the religious, if not the dangerously obsessive. When Leda first arrived in Winslow the year before, Fred initially hailed her as a fellow historian, his conduit to passing on the town's heritage to impressionable young students. But then Leda limited her local history unit to three days and Fred's participation to one 20-minute lecture. The scorned historian never forgave her. Three days was an insult to West Michigan's legacy, he told Leda in front of her 5th-hour class.
"Three days!" he screamed, while students cowered in their desks. "How can you honor the dreams of our fathers in only three days?"
"They're lucky to have that," Leda told him. "I had to cut two days off the Crusades to make it fit, and that includes the sacking of Constantinople."
But such a concession cut no ice with Fred, who brushed away centuries of Christians in the Holy Lands and stormed out to share his outrage with Principal Seymour. They spent a happy hour complaining about Leda in his office, but Michigan history remained a three-day unit.
“Officer!” called a querulous voice, squeaky with urgency, and a rapping noise. Leda jumped and looked around. Old Mrs. Loomis was trotting beside the squad car, hitting it with her cane. Her adult daughter, Mallory, followed behind, carrying her mother’s purse.
“Speed up,” Leda whispered to Officer Pete. Surely an eight-cylinder police car could outrun a little old lady.
“Huh?’ Pete looked started. “But there’s a stop sign.”
“Yeah, two blocks away, just … oh, forget it.” Pete stopped the car and rolled down the window. Mrs. Loomis looked down at them with satisfaction. She wasn’t even out of breath.
“Good afternoon, Officer, I want to discuss the roadblock by Goosey Mansion!” Mrs. Loomis announced.
Pete cringed. So did Leda. Old Mrs. Loomis had always been a force to reckon with, despite increasing age and eye cataract problems resulting in near blindness. Now a recent surgery had restored her sight and nobody in Winslow was safe. Leda had to admire Mrs. Loomis’ spirit, though. Blue Cross had originally refused to pay for cataract surgery on the grounds that it was a pre-existing condition. For one solid week in January, Mrs. Loomis sat in front of the village health clinic, half-frozen, holding a large sign that said “I may be blind, but I can see through Blue Cross’ lies.” TV Channel 8 out of Kalamazoo came to Winslow to film her. Soon afterwards, Mrs. Loomis got her surgery in Kalamazoo, presumably after Blue Cross saw the PR risk in denying surgery to blind old ladies, although neither Mrs. Loomis or Mallory would talk. Probably a corporate gag order, Leda thought. She wished the village could do something like that.
Leda supposed she should feel good about such social activism that restores rightful benefits to the downtrodden elderly, but the truth was that Mrs. Loomis’ restored sight was a mixed blessing for the town. The staff of Winslow Medical Clinic was no doubt relieved to be spared her daily presence, but that just meant the rest of Winslow had to deal with her.
Mrs. Loomis looked past Pete at Leda and her surgically enhanced eyes widened under penciled brows. “Well, of course I won’t delay you, Officer. You’ll need to get this one to the station at once.”
Leda rolled her eyes. “I’m not under arrest, Mrs. Loomis.”
Mrs. Loomis looked disappointed. “If you say so, dear. Tell me, have you heard from darling Jeffrey?”
“No,” Leda said through clenched teeth. Mrs. Loomis never failed to ask after her ex-fiance.
“I just thought, surely we would hear from the dear boy by now, but perhaps something is keeping him away …” She trailed off, glaring at Leda. There was no doubt in her mind what was keeping Jeffrey Stark away from Winslow, where he was so loved and needed.
“Uh, I’m on police business, Mrs. Loomis,” Pete said. “We’re on our way to the courthouse museum—”
“The courthouse?” the old lady asked avidly. “Police business at the courthouse?”
“Mother,” said Mallory, taking Mrs. Loomis’ arm and trying to draw her away. “Let Pete do his job —“
“But what about the roadblock!” Mrs. Loomis tugged free and banged on the car door again with her cane. “We simply cannot have the street past Goosey Mansion blocked off – the detour takes traffic right down Magnolia Avenue! I haven’t had a moment of peace!”
“Well, it’s for the wedding, Mrs. Loomis — North Main businesses and commercial vehicles only —”
“High school students are driving down my street! Speeding at all hours! Completely out of control!” She banged on the squad car door again to illustrate the loss of control. “Obviously,” she said venomously, looking past Pete to Leda, “these teenagers don’t have anything constructive or educational to do.”
“It’s only until Friday, ma’am,” Pete said. “Mr. Goosey has paid a generous sum to clear North Main and …”
The squad car’s radio suddenly exploded. “Pete!” shouted a crackling voice. “Pete, where the hell are you?”
Pete lunged for the hand-held receiver. “Officer Tartan here. Yes, I have Miss Morris. On my way.”
“Then get moving, damn it!” the radio shouted.
“Yes sir!’ Pete stepped on the gas.
“In my day a girl could get married without choking quiet residential streets with traffic!” Mrs. Loomis screamed as she sprinted after them.
“You’d better drive faster,” Leda said. “She’s catching up.”
The police radio call, plus the sight of Mrs. Loomis in Pete’s rearview mirror, was enough to push the speedometer to 25 mph, a marked improvement. Mrs. Loomis and General Winslow’s statue receded from view, both now blocked by a minivan full of little ballerinas.
Pete turned right on Prairie Avenue and Leda could see the roadblock on the left, blocking access to Winslow’s historic, ivy-covered Goosey Mansion. The Gooseys were Winslow’s first family: still rich from a lumber fortune, hopelessly snobby and avid to slap their name on every building in town. But they knew a nutcase when they saw one, and Fred Stark certainly qualified. The Gooseys rarely allowed access to their papers and antiques and Fred turn up at any large event at the mansion, desperate to catch a glimpse of a genuine horsehair sofa or Goosey family portrait.
Poor Uncle Fred, Leda thought. He wasn’t really her uncle, of course, he was Jeffrey Stark’s uncle. But when Leda first met Fred Stark the year before she was Jeff’s fiancé and eager to please, so she called him Uncle Fred. As a “sixth-generation Winslowite,” he was unimpressed by the smart-mouthed San Francisco girl his nephew was marrying. Leda was certainly no Goosey of the Winslow Gooseys; she was a Morris from the Mission District and her mother’s family lived in Celaya, Guanajuato, near Mexico City.
Fred’s dreams were partially realized. While Jeff didn’t marry a Goosey, he did run off with one, after Leda had followed him from San Francisco to this godforsaken little town. Squatting in a nasty, bug-ridden apartment in the Tenderloin, the bucolic life of a western Michigan farming community was enticing to Leda. They would settle in a white house with a picket fence, rock on a porch swing, raise half-a-dozen children. Leda could trade the sullen city classrooms of Polk High School for small-town classes of eager, well-scrubbed students. Jeff would write the Great American Novel and they would build him a little writing studio overlooking the Kootchikoo River.
Those dreams lasted six months. They had to live with Jeff’s daffy sister Candace in their old family home (just until the Novel sold for a hefty advance, of course). Leda discovered that all teenage classrooms — urban, rural, suburban, Martian — were sullen and Jeff discovered that talking about the Great American Novel was a lot easier than writing one.
Six months was all it took for Jeff to rediscover all the reasons he’d left Winslow in the first place. His regular fits of existential despair, which never failed to impress the South-of-Market café crowd, only inspired total incomprehension in Winslow and a few fresh-baked fruit tarts. It wasn’t that they weren’t welcome — on the contrary, Jeff was embraced as a returning hometown hero, fresh with tales of the dissipated big city, a walking symbol of the superiority of small-town life. Women left pies on the doorstep and stopped Leda in the street to tell stories of Jeff’s antics as a child. Old men smiled when she said hello and kept her up to date on the current time, temperature and latest barometer reading.
Yes, Winslow was a welcoming place ... until Jeff drove off in their only car with Angela Goosey back to San Francisco, where he would write content for a new dot-com that created online graves for pets.
Which left Leda in Winslow, teaching history and living in her ex-fiance’s sister’s house. She was no longer Winslow’s golden girl; she was now Jeff’s Reject, the shameless city woman who chased their beloved hometown boy away. No more cherry pies on the porch, no more framed cross-stitch samplers for her future married life. Everywhere she went in the village, she felt eyes measuring her, reassuring themselves that it was Leda, not Winslow that was just Not Good Enough.
“We’re here,” said Pete, breaking into such happy thoughts. She could see the tall, white Greek Revival pillars of the 1839 courthouse through the squad car’s dirty window. The lilac bushes along the side of the building looked bedraggled in the slanted October sun.
Somebody rapped sharply on the driver's window. Officer Pete squeaked in fear, knocking against the gearshift by mistake. The squad car rolled forward and the cop squeaked again and threw the car back into park. Then he rolled down the window.
The shadowed face Officer Sam Luther, backlit by the late-afternoon sun, filled the window. "Thank you for coming, Miss Morris," Luther said. "Tony, what time did your shift start?"
"Uh, 8 this morning."
"OK, Chief says you're off the clock. Seven-hour days until further notice."
"Oh maaaan ..." the cop whined.
“I know, Pete.” Sam slapped him on the shoulder and walked around the car to open Leda's door. She scrambled out, clutching her purse and a folder of ungraded Franco-Prussian War tests. She wished she'd dressed better that morning; in anticipation of war games on the football field, she was wearing jeans, tennis shoes and a red Winslow High School hoodie. It probably served her right, Leda thought, after years of playing “Midwest or Lesbian?” at airports. Now she went around in clothes that she wouldn’t have cleaned the garage in, back in San Francisco. At least she wasn't wearing a kitten sweatshirt. You had to draw the line somewhere.
Sam Luther, on the other hand, was meticulously dressed, his brown uniform pressed and perfectly creased. He had the face and build of a typical small town football jock, all shoulders and blond hair and a broad, tanned face. But Sam was a spooky guy, a tremendously talented policeman, the type of cop who probably could get in the mind of a serial killer and feel the emotions that prompted him to bludgeon fitness freaks to death with frozen Crystal Geyser water bottles.
"Why am I here?" she asked. She knew Fred Stark was an old bachelor, but surely there was somebody better to identify the body than his nephew’s despised ex-fiance.
"We need you to look at something," answered Sam, his pale blue eyes burning, imagining, no doubt, the mass grave that might be under the red brick pathway to the courthouse.
“Officer Luther …” Leda hesitated. She didn’t know this man very well. Jeff had always referred to him as Sam Loser, a small-town rent-a-cop who wouldn’t leave even after his marriage ended.
She swallowed. “Is Uncle Fred really —”
Luther nodded. “He left a note.”
Leda’s folder suddenly opened, scattering history tests on the cold dirt ground. She knelt without thinking, stuffing the papers back into the folder, instinctively trying to keep them in alphabetical order: Archer, Baker, Banham, Dressel …
Luther was beside her, gathering up the rest.
“Um, give me Kilbourne first,” she said. “Now Longbourne …”
Suicide. Leda had never considered suicide. The Fred Starks of the world didn’t commit suicide. They didn’t flail around looking for Meaning in Life, they had their meaning, they were a link to the past, holders of a sacred trust, protectors of faded photographs and genuine pinewood hat holders everywhere.
“Where’s Kristie Van Plew’s test?” she managed to ask. “Oh good.” She stood and stared up at Luther again. “Why?”
“We’re hoping you can answer that,” he said, heading up the brick path.
Leda trotted after him to the historic courthouse. The building's door, pillars and steps were painted white and shone bright against the red brick walls. Even the grout between the bricks looked freshly scrubbed, and knowing Fred Stark, probably was.
They were now on the courthouse steps. Luther opened the tall door and ushered her inside.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
A Nice NaNo Moment
My husband and I started today with a nice moment. We're stumbling around the apartment half-awake, and suddenly I have a question.
CHRISTINE
Hey Ron, do Protestant churches allow funerals for suicides?
RON
What?
CHRISTINE
Do Protestant churches allow funerals for suicides. The Catholic Church calls it a mortal sin.
RON
Uh. yes.
CHRISTINE
Good.
(short pause)
RON
... WHY!!!
CHRISTINE
For my mystery novel.
RON
Oh.
CHRISTINE
Hey Ron, do Protestant churches allow funerals for suicides?
RON
What?
CHRISTINE
Do Protestant churches allow funerals for suicides. The Catholic Church calls it a mortal sin.
RON
Uh. yes.
CHRISTINE
Good.
(short pause)
RON
... WHY!!!
CHRISTINE
For my mystery novel.
RON
Oh.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Add Murder, Suspects and Setting. Shake Well.
This web site has a fine formula for writing a mystery novel, so I've decided to follow it. Here's Part One:
A. Disclose the crime and mystery to be solved. Give the reader enough information about the victim to make them truly care that the perpetrator is found out and that justice is served.
B. Early in the story, clues should be revealed which suggest both physical and psychological aspects of the initial crime. Those clues should point to suspects and motive which will cary the sleuth to the end of Act I. Some clues should point the sleuth in the right direction, others may not be obvious or be recognized as actual clues unto later in the story.
C. Introduce the sleuth who will solve the crime early, and have him or her do or say something very clever or unexpected which will establish that person as unique. Do reveal enough background to let the reader understand the world in which the protagonist functions.
D. Ground the reader in the time and place where the crime occurs. It is often useful to include some sort of symbol, an object or a person, in the opening scene which serves as a metaphor for what occurs in the story. The reappearance of this symbol at the conclusion of the story will create a certain organic unity.
A. Disclose the crime and mystery to be solved. Give the reader enough information about the victim to make them truly care that the perpetrator is found out and that justice is served.
B. Early in the story, clues should be revealed which suggest both physical and psychological aspects of the initial crime. Those clues should point to suspects and motive which will cary the sleuth to the end of Act I. Some clues should point the sleuth in the right direction, others may not be obvious or be recognized as actual clues unto later in the story.
C. Introduce the sleuth who will solve the crime early, and have him or her do or say something very clever or unexpected which will establish that person as unique. Do reveal enough background to let the reader understand the world in which the protagonist functions.
D. Ground the reader in the time and place where the crime occurs. It is often useful to include some sort of symbol, an object or a person, in the opening scene which serves as a metaphor for what occurs in the story. The reappearance of this symbol at the conclusion of the story will create a certain organic unity.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Chapter One
THE BATTLE ON FROESCHWILLER RIDGE
Leda Morris’ day was going perfectly well until she lost Napoleon III.
The Emperor was most likely smoking in the boy’s bathroom or finding pictures of naked women in the library or hiding in the teacher’s lounge — an ominous, subterranean space that even the teachers avoided. But where he was not was the French-held town of Metz on the 40-yard line, preparing for a German attack.
One could argue that such behavior was entirely in character for Napoleon III, one of history’s most famous cowardly rats. But Leda wasn’t prepared to listen to such an argument; she was incensed by such foolish behavior from an Emperor whose grasp of a C- in ninth-grade history was tenuous at best.
Leda snatched up the megaphone at her feet. “Halt everybody! Halt! That means stop!” she shouted. “Hey, that means you too, Prince Frederick Charles!”
She threw the megaphone down and turned to a little weedy freshman with dirty glasses. “Hey, Troy,” she said. “Who are you?”
“General Douay.”
“Great. That means you’re dead, right? Get out there and be the Emperor.”
Troy quivered. “I don’t know what to do,” he whined.
“Go to Metz, stand behind Bazaine and shout useless orders, and than right before Frederick Charles cuts the road to Verdun,” — Leda waved a hand at a flag on the 30 — “Announce you’re raising a new army in Chalons and run back to me like a scared rabbit. Got it?”
Troy nodded and ran off. Leda picked up her megaphone.
“That’s Berlin, Troy! Metz is that way!”
The new Emperor changed course, and Leda looked at the field of battle with satisfaction. There was Frederick Charles ready to cut off the French army’s retreat from Metz, and there was General Francois Achille Bazaine — trying on a new lipstick and reading a new issue of Allure, true, but in position. Ten students were milling confusedly around her with no idea what to do, but that was fine, that was a perfect reenactment of the French Army. And there was Moltke with another megaphone, getting ready to order the Germans to attack.
“Miss Morris?” asked a small voice.
“What?” she snapped. Another little freshman in thick glasses was standing beside her. Another one? Did Troy arrange for backup here?
“Pri-Principal Seymour wants you to answer your cell phone,” the little kid said.
“What?” Leda asked again. Winslow High School Principal Tom Seymour was a famous micromanager, but this was taking it a little far. “I’ll answer it when I’m ready.”
“He-he says to answer it now. It’s Chief Bronson.”
“Hey!” Leda shouted through her megaphone. “Frederick Charles, what are you doing?”
Frederick Charles ran over, the ribbons on her pigtails flapping. “If I go straight, I’ll run right into the other German army.”
“Exactly! That was Frederick’s favorite thing to do! Now get back there!” Leda yelled. The German general ran back, shaking her head, pink ribbons bouncing.
“Take five!” Leda shouted through her megaphone. There was a general groan as 40 high school freshman collapsed on the football field. She quickly dialed up her cell phone’s last missed call.
“Chief Bronson,” said a crisp voice.
“Hello, sir," Leda said. "I'm sorry I missed your call, but I’m in the middle of the Franco-Prussian War here —”
“I need you to come to the Courthouse Museum,” Bronson said. “I’m sending a squad car.”
“I'd really like to Chief, but football practice starts at two, and the French have to attempt the breakout from Metz today so we can fight the Battle of Sedan on Friday —
If Bronson thought her response was strange, his voice gave no sign. “You have five minutes,” he said calmly and hung up.
“Damn,” Leda muttered and threw the phone at the freshman. “Take position!” she shouted through the megaphone. “Bazaine, get the heck out of Metz!”
Bazaine and his students ran toward the 30-yard line in a confused mass, leaving behind stragglers every few yards as students tripped or dropped books or stopped to talk to friends. Leda didn’t mind that – that was only to be expected and perfectly historically accurate as well.
“Frederick Charles! Attack!” shouted Moltke from his megaphone.
Another mass of students started wacking the French army with empty wrapping-paper tubes. The attacked students screeched as if they were truly being run through with sabers and ran back to the Metz flag, which was absolutely right.
“The road to Verdun is almost cut off!” Leda shouted.
Emperor Napoleon III raced out of Metz toward Paris (beside the left-hand goal post), but then another student cut him off and tackled him at the 10-yard line.
“Hey!” Leda shouted. “Football practice doesn’t start for another 10 minutes!” She ran over.
The Emperor lay on the ground, his glasses on the field. Standing over him was the original Napoleon III, dressed in his No. 13 Winslow Terriers football jersey. His breath smelled suspiciously of cigarettes. “You said I could be the Emperor!” the bigger student said.
“Well, you weren’t here,” Leda answered. “And if I catch you abandoning your post again, Griffin, I’ll have you lead a calvary uphill against rifle-bearing infantry and let me tell you, these guys did that a lot —“
“Miss Morris!”
Leda turned aorund. Principal Seymour stood there, scowling, with a uniformed cop beside him.
“Miss Morris, I have taken frequent issue with your behavior,” Seymour said, “and I cannot be surprised that the police have finally come to arrest you —“
“I’m not arresting her,” said the cop. He had a round, red face and a stomach that strained the buttons of his uniform.
“Of course you are,” Seymour said.
The cop shook his head. “No, Chief Bronson requires her expert consultation.”
“At the Courthouse Museum?” Leda asked.
“There’s been an … incident,” the cop said, looking around nervously. “Miss Morris, I don’t want to arrest you, but Chief Bronson said to bring you — with handcuffs or without.”
Seymour’s eyes gleamed at the mere mention of handcuffs, so Leda sighed and handed the megaphone to the principal.
“Students!” Seymour shouted through the megaphone. “Prepare to return to your classroom at once!”
General groaning ensued on the field. Students picked up their scattered flags, books and broken wrapping-paper tubes with long suffering looks. Leda received her purse from another helpful little four-eyed freshman and trudged after the police officer.
“I’m sorry to have disturbed your … um … class, Miss Morris,” the cop said, puffing with exertion already.
“What’s going on?” she asked. “Why would you guys need my advice?” Although if the police chief really wanted her opinions, Leda thought, she’d start with physical fitness requirements for all officers.
The cop opened the door of the squad car for her, then slipped behind the wheel. His sweating face looked anxious. “I’m not supposed to tell you anything, but …” He looked around as if two reporters and an OSS spy were crouched in the back seat.
“We found Fred Stark in the Courthouse Museum,” he whispered.
“Shocking,” Leda answered. “A museum curator is actually found in his museum. Stop the presses.”
“The problem isn’t that he’s there,” the cop continued hoarsely. “The problem is that he’s dead.”
Day One
Well here I am, a little hung over but still game.
My son Benny went trick-or-treating with his friend Quinn, as Quinn's parents and I followed with plastic cups of red wine.
We ranged freely about our San Francisco neighborhood, stopping at open businesses as well as houses. By the end, Benny the Ninja was lugging an overflowing pumpkin pail in one hand and a stick of cotton candy in the other. To celebrate the haul, Quinn's parents and I opened another bottle at their house.
Now I've thrown my husband and son out of the house and I'm ready. My head aches a little and the temperature in our apartment is 79 degrees (November heat waves are truly unnatural). But I've got determination — and a nearly endless supply of Cheezits and Coke. Good luck everyone!
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