the body. Whatever was going on, Darryl was involved in it, and probably deeper than Paul was.
Paul hadn’t been out to Darryl’s house for almost a year—not since he and Darryl had argued about the best way to water an associate’s big hillside plot. Darryl was the best irrigation guy around, but he was also well aware of that fact, and very touchy about his methods. It shouldn’t have been a big deal, but they’d been distant ever since.
Paul pulled over a few houses down the street, not wanting to give Darryl a chance to slip out the back door if he didn’t want company. As he sat there thinking about what he’d say, he noticed a little guy in a baseball cap creeping along the side of Darryl’s house, ducking low to avoid the windows. Except it wasn’t a guy. It was Lacey. He watched her unlatch the side gate and disappear into the backyard. Paul sat there for a moment. Then he put his truck in reverse, backed away down the block and around the corner, and drove away.
NOTES:
Lisa,
I think I’m getting the hang of this clue business. Let me know if you need me to spell out the Monopoly reference.
To respond to your last note, you’ve always had this notion that plot and character are two separate entities. In the Fop days you bulldozed characters in the name of moving the plot forward. The croupier, for example, was a casualty we couldn’t afford. When the casino burned down in the third act, he would have been the natural choice. Instead we had to conjure a suspect out of the blue.
If our book doesn’t have the requisite number of kills and thrills, who cares? The reader will remember the characters long after they’ve forgotten who done it.
Dave
Dave,
Thank you for your thoughts on character and plot. But I kind of want my readers to remember “who done it” rather than who drinks warm gin in a Thermos cap and calls it a martini. It’s a nice detail, but even the finest martini could use an olive. Meaning something to chew on.
By the way, did we ever find out whose plane crashed? We might want to clear that up one of these days. As for your “clue,” a Google search informed me that Ventnor and Atlantic Avenues are real estate on a Monopoly board. I have no idea where you’re going with that. Do you?
On a positive note, I don’t believe you mentioned Irving the cat even once.
Lisa
P.S. I didn’t mean to imply that the road trip was all bad. Reno was awesome. Especially when we won the football bet. I just don’t know why you refused to get gas. We could have died out there.
CHAPTER 7
When Lacey heard a truck idling down the desolate street, she slipped between a set of bushes, scratching the exposed skin on her neck. A breathless and eternal minute passed until the truck rolled away. She circled the perimeter of Darryl’s house, searching for a better view inside. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but an investigation has to start somewhere, right? And the only two people linked to the body were Darryl Cleveland and now Hart Drexel. She started with the easy one. Darryl. At least she knew where he lived. Besides, she had spent all day batting away dark thoughts like flies. But whenever you try not to think about something, that’s when you can’t escape it. So she let herself think, just for a minute.
Hart’s ring had been left behind at the second crime scene. From the moment she’d found it, the ugly thought had stuck with her. Hart was the killer. But then she cooled down and figured there had to be another explanation. Hart was trouble, sure, but mostly she remembered all the little things he used to do for her—checking the oil in her car so she wouldn’t burn out her transmission, bringing her coffee in the morning. Once he even tried making chicken soup when she had a cold. Lacey had to pour it out the window when he wasn’t looking, but still.
Could she have really spent three and a half years with a murderer?
A light shone from the living
Paul hadn’t been out to Darryl’s house for almost a year—not since he and Darryl had argued about the best way to water an associate’s big hillside plot. Darryl was the best irrigation guy around, but he was also well aware of that fact, and very touchy about his methods. It shouldn’t have been a big deal, but they’d been distant ever since.
Paul pulled over a few houses down the street, not wanting to give Darryl a chance to slip out the back door if he didn’t want company. As he sat there thinking about what he’d say, he noticed a little guy in a baseball cap creeping along the side of Darryl’s house, ducking low to avoid the windows. Except it wasn’t a guy. It was Lacey. He watched her unlatch the side gate and disappear into the backyard. Paul sat there for a moment. Then he put his truck in reverse, backed away down the block and around the corner, and drove away.
NOTES:
Lisa,
I think I’m getting the hang of this clue business. Let me know if you need me to spell out the Monopoly reference.
To respond to your last note, you’ve always had this notion that plot and character are two separate entities. In the Fop days you bulldozed characters in the name of moving the plot forward. The croupier, for example, was a casualty we couldn’t afford. When the casino burned down in the third act, he would have been the natural choice. Instead we had to conjure a suspect out of the blue.
If our book doesn’t have the requisite number of kills and thrills, who cares? The reader will remember the characters long after they’ve forgotten who done it.
Dave
Dave,
Thank you for your thoughts on character and plot. But I kind of want my readers to remember “who done it” rather than who drinks warm gin in a Thermos cap and calls it a martini. It’s a nice detail, but even the finest martini could use an olive. Meaning something to chew on.
By the way, did we ever find out whose plane crashed? We might want to clear that up one of these days. As for your “clue,” a Google search informed me that Ventnor and Atlantic Avenues are real estate on a Monopoly board. I have no idea where you’re going with that. Do you?
On a positive note, I don’t believe you mentioned Irving the cat even once.
Lisa
P.S. I didn’t mean to imply that the road trip was all bad. Reno was awesome. Especially when we won the football bet. I just don’t know why you refused to get gas. We could have died out there.
CHAPTER 7
When Lacey heard a truck idling down the desolate street, she slipped between a set of bushes, scratching the exposed skin on her neck. A breathless and eternal minute passed until the truck rolled away. She circled the perimeter of Darryl’s house, searching for a better view inside. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but an investigation has to start somewhere, right? And the only two people linked to the body were Darryl Cleveland and now Hart Drexel. She started with the easy one. Darryl. At least she knew where he lived. Besides, she had spent all day batting away dark thoughts like flies. But whenever you try not to think about something, that’s when you can’t escape it. So she let herself think, just for a minute.
Hart’s ring had been left behind at the second crime scene. From the moment she’d found it, the ugly thought had stuck with her. Hart was the killer. But then she cooled down and figured there had to be another explanation. Hart was trouble, sure, but mostly she remembered all the little things he used to do for her—checking the oil in her car so she wouldn’t burn out her transmission, bringing her coffee in the morning. Once he even tried making chicken soup when she had a cold. Lacey had to pour it out the window when he wasn’t looking, but still.
Could she have really spent three and a half years with a murderer?
A light shone from the living
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