Fox Island (6 page)

“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.”

Chapter 3

As is much of the land west of the Cascades,
Fox Island remains an ever-green 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.”

“A book agent in New York City. Liz admits
she doesn’t know anything about Hollywood.”

Tony slammed his hand on the table. “I’m not
going to run around tossing my novels to the wolves to be destroyed
and rejected.”

“You might be right.” Price sipped on the
Earl Grey. “Of course, if you had waited until a publishing house
beat down your door, you’d never have gotten that first novel in
print.”

“That’s different. That’s the publishing
business. Sure, you have to keep sending your manuscript until you
find the right house. But now they can pick up the book, check out
my publishing record.”

“How are they going to get a copy to look at
unless someone shoves one in their face?”

“Not by Davidian. He’s a windbag. I don’t
trust him.”

“I wonder what type agent it does take to
get Hollywood’s attention? Besides, behind all that wind and the
Vuarnet sunglasses seems to be a guy who’s well connected. And he
sure has an air of confidence about him.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Price crunched into the toasted bagel
smothered edge to edge with melted butter and wild black cherry
preserves. “So, let’s move to a more enjoyable subject. Did you get
a chance to look at my work on chapter one?”

Tony flipped open his portfolio and yanked
out twenty-five double-spaced typed pages. “I think it’s starting
to take shape, don’t you?”

“Yes I do,” she nodded without lifting the
manuscript. “What do you think about my idea to open each chapter
with an italicized section on geographical description, and
transition into the text?”

“We talked about that. Like I said, it
doesn’t seem right. Nice idea, though. Maybe I’ll use that sometime
in a novel. I just deleted those openings.”

“You did what?” Price picked up the first
chapter and stared at the front page.

“Look, honey, that idea was a bit
distractive. I think keeping in pattern with our other...”

“You deleted the entire opening
paragraph?”

“Only the stuff in italics.”

“That
stuff
in italics was
my
part. What was wrong with it?”

“It was nice enough. You always do a superb
job. But it’s the concept.”

“It didn’t meet your present needs? Is that
what you’re trying to tell me?”

“Babe, look...”

“Don’t ‘babe’ me. Just exactly what was
wrong with those openings, Mr. Famous Author, other than the fact
you didn’t think of it yourself?”

“Surely you don’t think...? It was
just...”

“Just what?”

“For one thing…” He drummed his fingers on
metal. “…the transitions were rough.”

“Then rewrite the transitions. The opening
is what gives me ownership in that chapter. Take it out and I’m
nothing more than a copy editor.”

Tony stood up and walked to the deck
railing. The fog seemed cold and heavy, rather than restful. “I
thought we solved all of that last summer. Remember those long
talks we had? Now, you’ve got to trust me on this. I’ve written a
number of books and...”

Price slammed her hands on her hips. “I am
well aware of your book list. I was working under the assumption
this project would be co-written.”

Tony gently placed his hand on her shoulder.
“Hey, there’s no reason to get in such a tiff.”

Shoving his hand away, she stormed toward
the house. “I am NOT in a tiff! And I don’t want to talk about
it.”

When the sliding glass door slammed shut,
Tony peered into the fogbank for some sign of life. He was
surprised to see the pelicans moved far down the inlet. The shroud
of silence shut him into his own private world of thoughts.

Why couldn’t they just calmly talk about it?
They were both adults and professionals. Why did Price have to take
it so personally? He was a reasonable man. All she had to do was
logically explain, step by step, line by line.

He gathered up Price’s tray and tiptoed into
the house. “Honey, let’s talk this out,” he called out.

“We did,” she answered from the bedroom.
“I’m going to take a shower.”

The bathroom door slammed. He could hear the
turn of the lock. “Priscilla?”

“Whoa! I’ve never seen Dr. S. so upset.”
Melody stood at the front door clutching a large yellow plastic
basket. “Maybe this isn’t a good time to do my laundry. I’ll do it
this evening.”

“It’s just some ... eh, creative
differences.”

“Is Dr. S’s name Priscilla? I’ve never heard
anyone call her that before.”

“Well, I don’t normally call her that.”

“Only when you’re mad?”

“Something like that.”

“At least you’re human. For a while I
figured you two were the last perfect Christian couple.”

Tony took a deep breath. “I’m afraid we’re a
long way from perfection. But that doesn’t mean we’re not trying.
Just a little artistic misunderstanding. You see, she mistook
my...”

“Hey, you don’t have to explain to me. I’ve
often wondered how two literary masters can get along in the same
household at all. Kim and I get into hairy arguments all the time
over our pieces, and she’s an artist and I’m a writer, and we don’t
even live together. Tell Dr. S. I’ll be over at my place whenever
she’s ready.”

“Oh? More interviews?”

“Mrs. Nelson’s mother is visiting this week.
She lives in Spokane. But in the thirties she worked at the
Longhouse.”

“Then maybe she could tell us something
about the type of guests they had. Make sure you two ask her about
the Thirty- sixth Avenue Slayings.”

“When that Chinese restaurant was shot
up?”

“One account I read said it might have been
planned at the Longhouse on Fox Island. Also, find out if there are
some other people from those days we can interview.”

“Why are you telling me? Shouldn’t Dr. S.
know this?”

“Communication isn’t too strong between the
Shadowbrooks right at the moment.”

“Harvey Peterson flagged me down yesterday.
He’s really anxious to have you come visit him. Says he has
information that will knock your socks off. But he insists you be
the one to do the interview. It’s a man thing, he says.”

“Does anyone take Harvey seriously?”

“Harvey does.”

“I tell you what would knock my socks off
... if a fake Japanese invasion of Fox Island was staged by Tacoma
mob bosses to cover up a great escape of prisoners from McNeil
Island. Now, that would be a story.”

“Wouldn’t that be cool? Maybe you could
write a novel about Fox Island someday.”

“Well, don’t line me up with Harvey just
yet. I want to do a little more investigating before I take him
on.”

“Mrs. Mackay got back from Ohio on Saturday.
She’ll have the museum open today.”

“I know. I have an appointment with her at
10:30.”

“Seems funny you’ve been on the Island three
weeks and haven’t seen the museum. Are you going to look through
all the documents and stuff filed in the back room?”

“Most definitely.”

“Well...” Melody waved, balanced the basket
on her knee, and shoved open the screen door. “Hope you get it all
worked out with Dr. S.”

Tony and Price dressed without a word.

He ought to ask Price if the tan pullover
Henley shirt was too casual for the museum assignment, but he
didn’t dare. Maybe they were right. Two authors in the same family,
the same marriage, didn’t really work. Maybe he should let her do
whatever she wanted with the manuscript. But it had to be right.
How long was this going to last anyway?

This is ridiculous.

Price slipped on her fuchsia nylon jacket,
grabbed up her briefcase and tugged her purse strap over her
shoulder. “You’ll have to make your own lunch,” she finally
said.

He stretched his arms out to block the
doorway. “We’ve got to work this thing out.”

“What’s there to work out? Obviously, you’ve
already made up your mind.”

He put down his arms and backed up a few
steps. “No, I haven’t, but I have my reasons for wanting to keep
the same format.”

She didn’t move. “And I have my reasons for
wanting to change.”

“So, let’s sit down and rationally talk this
out right now.”

“Tony, in case you have forgotten, you don’t
operate on reason. You fly by instinct. You shoot from the hip,
like most of your heroes. And, like them, you are usually quite
good at it. But this time you missed the mark.”