by Stephen Bly
“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 understand, 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 own
ed 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 telephone 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 Oldsmobile.”
“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?”
&n
bsp; “About five minutes after I start pulling on my right ear.”
Chapter 3
As is much of the land west of the Cascades, Fox Island remains an evergreen paradise of firs, pines, and spruce. At times looking as if methodically landscaped by a Grand Gardener, the mild blackberries and grapes blend artistically with the daffodils and dahlias. Flamboyant red-barked Madrona trees clamor to be seen in every vista before they shed their bark, leaves, and berries.
But after a while, even the magnificent Madronas don’t catch everyone’s attention.
Tony sprawled on a chaise out on the deck. Three pelicans dove into the Sound, their large beaks handy fishnets as they plunged for underwater meals. Two settled for surface feeding. The third soared on a rising thermal, its white body dulled gray by the sunless inlet. Price carried out a tray with a mug of steaming tea and two toasted bagels.
“It’s foggier than usual,” she announced as she wiped off the metal chair with her napkin and sat down.
“Makes it seem even more remote out here. I definitely like this side of the Island better. There’s no narrow passage or bridge to cut down your imagination of being in a part of the hidden West.”
“What did you decide about Davidian?”
“He’s a flake.”
“I mean, besides that.” She sipped her tea and tightened the soft blue chamois robe more securely under her chin, glad she had followed her impulse and bought it their last trip into Tacoma.
“The guy’s a phony. He drives all the way up here, has car trouble, and winds up bumming at our house for three days. Then he wires home for money to repair that old junker. And after all that, he has the audacity to ask me to give him a $10,000 advance to take my book to ten Hollywood studios.”
“Twelve studios.”
“Ten, twelve, it doesn’t matter. I can’t believe the nerve of some guys.”
“Yes, but he did call back last night and say he’d do it for free if you’d agree to a 15% agent fee. He might possess the kind of nerve that lands him in the right place at one of the studios. What do you have to lose?”
“Self-respect. I don’t want to be represented by some ding-a-ling. If the studios think my books are good enough for movies, then they can come beat at my door. I’ve got an agent.”