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Authors: Robyn Carr
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hunting sparrows.”
“He named common birds to a Native?” she asked, astonished. “Isn’t that sort of like naming organs to a doctor?” She didn’t give him time to answer. “Why didn’t you stop in and see Myrna yourself?”
“I could have done that, but to tell you the truth, I was a little afraid she might go looking for him, have him in for tea…or martinis.”
“Yeah, I see the dilemma. I’ll drop in on her, make sure she understands she should be careful. Do you think he could be a bothersome fan?”
“I wouldn’t rule out anything,” he said. Except that he’s a bird-watcher, he thought.
Myrna Hudson Claypool was Elmer’s older sister and had raised him since he was an orphaned two-year-old. She had been only fourteen at the time, but seventy years ago it wasn’t so odd for a fourteen-year-old girl to be a mother. Their parents had left not only the big house on the hill overlooking all of Grace Valley, but plenty of money.
Myrna didn’t herself marry until Elmer was through medical school and settled with his own wife, and then it was a traveling salesman named Morton Claypool whom she chose. She never had a problem with Morton’s travels, which took up four to five days of every week. It was almost as though she didn’t want anyone who was going to be around too much so that it might distract her. Myrna had, late in life, turned from an avid reader to a writer of Gothics and mysteries and, finally, suspense novels. It was sometime during June’s senior year of high school, some twenty years past, that Myrna was either widowed or abandoned or quietly divorced. No one knew which. All they knew for certain was that Morton was gone and Myrna had assured her family that he wouldn’t be coming back. No one pried because it seemed fairly obvious that Morton had run off…or wouldn’t she have at least held a memorial? She was rather proud of the large monument-type headstones she’d supplied her parents, so surely she’d have wanted a similar thing for her spouse. But pressing her on the subject seemed destined to humiliate her, so when she expressed her desire to not discuss it further, they—the family and close friends—allowed the subject to drop.
The town talked, plenty. But not to Myrna. Everyone loved Myrna. And even though she didn’t talk about Morton’s disappearance, there was a recurring theme in her novels of a philandering husband being killed by his scorned wife, the wife most often getting away with the crime. Each time Myrna revisited a variation of that plot, the poor husband suffered a death worse than theone before. Elmer had even confessed to June, in complete confidence, that he’d walked around the grounds at Hudson House in search of any freshly turned soil.
Myrna was a sweet old thing, still getting out a suspense novel every year despite the fact that she was eighty-four. She still drove a 1979 Cadillac, drank a martini or two a day, played poker with a bunch of old-timers and won more than anyone else, and employed the elderly twins Amelia and Endeara Barstow simply because no one else would.
She was also as eccentric as a peacock and Tom was right to fear she’d go looking for the fake bird-watcher. Myrna was not dense or forgetful or naive. In fact, she was as sharp as a tack with what Elmer referred to as a “dangerous memory.” However, she did happen to lack cynicism—a strange thing for the author of so many grisly murder stories.
A few years back a couple portraying themselves as her most ardent fans and a brilliant writing team themselves had shown up at Hudson House with a back seat full of every book she’d ever written—over sixty. They’d insinuated themselves into her home where they were going to presume upon her hospitality for as long as she’d allow it. They were clearly taking complete advantage, going through her things, asking her questions about her wealth and ringing up lots of long-distance charges. While they didn’t
“He named common birds to a Native?” she asked, astonished. “Isn’t that sort of like naming organs to a doctor?” She didn’t give him time to answer. “Why didn’t you stop in and see Myrna yourself?”
“I could have done that, but to tell you the truth, I was a little afraid she might go looking for him, have him in for tea…or martinis.”
“Yeah, I see the dilemma. I’ll drop in on her, make sure she understands she should be careful. Do you think he could be a bothersome fan?”
“I wouldn’t rule out anything,” he said. Except that he’s a bird-watcher, he thought.
Myrna Hudson Claypool was Elmer’s older sister and had raised him since he was an orphaned two-year-old. She had been only fourteen at the time, but seventy years ago it wasn’t so odd for a fourteen-year-old girl to be a mother. Their parents had left not only the big house on the hill overlooking all of Grace Valley, but plenty of money.
Myrna didn’t herself marry until Elmer was through medical school and settled with his own wife, and then it was a traveling salesman named Morton Claypool whom she chose. She never had a problem with Morton’s travels, which took up four to five days of every week. It was almost as though she didn’t want anyone who was going to be around too much so that it might distract her. Myrna had, late in life, turned from an avid reader to a writer of Gothics and mysteries and, finally, suspense novels. It was sometime during June’s senior year of high school, some twenty years past, that Myrna was either widowed or abandoned or quietly divorced. No one knew which. All they knew for certain was that Morton was gone and Myrna had assured her family that he wouldn’t be coming back. No one pried because it seemed fairly obvious that Morton had run off…or wouldn’t she have at least held a memorial? She was rather proud of the large monument-type headstones she’d supplied her parents, so surely she’d have wanted a similar thing for her spouse. But pressing her on the subject seemed destined to humiliate her, so when she expressed her desire to not discuss it further, they—the family and close friends—allowed the subject to drop.
The town talked, plenty. But not to Myrna. Everyone loved Myrna. And even though she didn’t talk about Morton’s disappearance, there was a recurring theme in her novels of a philandering husband being killed by his scorned wife, the wife most often getting away with the crime. Each time Myrna revisited a variation of that plot, the poor husband suffered a death worse than theone before. Elmer had even confessed to June, in complete confidence, that he’d walked around the grounds at Hudson House in search of any freshly turned soil.
Myrna was a sweet old thing, still getting out a suspense novel every year despite the fact that she was eighty-four. She still drove a 1979 Cadillac, drank a martini or two a day, played poker with a bunch of old-timers and won more than anyone else, and employed the elderly twins Amelia and Endeara Barstow simply because no one else would.
She was also as eccentric as a peacock and Tom was right to fear she’d go looking for the fake bird-watcher. Myrna was not dense or forgetful or naive. In fact, she was as sharp as a tack with what Elmer referred to as a “dangerous memory.” However, she did happen to lack cynicism—a strange thing for the author of so many grisly murder stories.
A few years back a couple portraying themselves as her most ardent fans and a brilliant writing team themselves had shown up at Hudson House with a back seat full of every book she’d ever written—over sixty. They’d insinuated themselves into her home where they were going to presume upon her hospitality for as long as she’d allow it. They were clearly taking complete advantage, going through her things, asking her questions about her wealth and ringing up lots of long-distance charges. While they didn’t
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