supposed to claim Hadley Welch was murdered. Then where was the airplane? Was it dismantled and shipped overseas? I've known them to be stolen, stripped down, repainted, engines changed out, then sold to fish spotters, drug runners, and freight haulers. I've seen them shipped to Alaska where they are used by shady bush pilots who swap out serial numbers with crashed aircraft. There were so many possibilities.
The author of the letter either killed the woman or knew who did. His conscious was bothering him, and he would be getting close to the age where his own death was looming. Maybe he wanted to square things before the final event, didn't want to fall from grace under the weight of a ponderous iniquity. The letter was the clue.
B.W. played with a small tightly woven leather ball, swatting it away, then leaping and attacking it. I wondered about the unknown mechanisms that create the inheritance of mental traits like instincts. The big black and white cat paused and looked at me as if he had the answer if only I would learn to speak his language. It was time for me to get something to eat before the Merlot created any further ratiocinate thinking. My brain is not used to such endeavors.
There were frozen salmon steaks in the fridge, sent down from Anchorage after the last King Salmon run by an old hunting friend. Putting one in warm water in the sink to thaw, I wrapped a potato in tin foil and put it in the oven to bake. Stoking the fire, my attention was drawn to a book by James Bradley that I had been reading in small doses due to the powerful and brutal content. Bradley's father was one of the six Marines shown raising the American flag in the famous photograph taken by Joe Rosenthal on Iwo Jima on February 23, 1945, atop Mount Suribachi. The myths surrounding that photograph are many and varied. One needs to read this book to dispel them. Personally, I think this work, Flags of Our Fathers, and another, Flyboys, the first work of Bradley's, should be required reading for all Americans. The simple lesson I learned about that war in the South Pacific against the Japanese is that, had we not had the atomic bomb and proceeded to go ashore on the mainland of Japan, another one and a half million American boys would have been killed.
Something Rose said earlier came to mind, "We must not lose our dead." Wonder what she meant by that?
The rain continued to come down in sheets, and the wind picked up, strong enough to affect the flame in the fireplace. B.W. ate as much of the salmon as I, and after some inane television we retired early. Tomorrow brought interviews with a lawyer named Collinswood, and a banker named Pushkin who was reluctant to talk.
***
The fast moving cold front had passed through and the day dawned bright and clear, and somewhat warmer. It was one of those days that made a person glad to be alive. There is a softness in the air that follows a rain, like the respectful silence when the preacher asks the congregation to bow their heads for prayer. I, too, was careful to be quiet as I stepped out onto the porch and looked at the oak, cedar, pine, and hickory trees wet and gray and silent in front of the cottage. My breath formed little fog clouds into the morning and quiet of the woods.
After a quick shower, I dressed and drove to Lawyer Collinswood's office in Union. It was in a stand-alone building, located in the downtown area, and surprisingly neat with a modern brick façade, complete with the obligatory hand-carved wooden shingle hanging by ornate chains over the sidewalk.
Entering the building, a receptionist rose to greet me. She was mid-thirties, wore steel-rimmed glasses and a straight plain dress that could have been designed in the eighteen hundreds, and no wedding ring. I suspected she had a nice body under the " Little House on the Prairie" attire, but she seemed to have given up hope for marriage, or maybe simply didn't care anymore.
"You must be Mr. Leicester. Mr.
The author of the letter either killed the woman or knew who did. His conscious was bothering him, and he would be getting close to the age where his own death was looming. Maybe he wanted to square things before the final event, didn't want to fall from grace under the weight of a ponderous iniquity. The letter was the clue.
B.W. played with a small tightly woven leather ball, swatting it away, then leaping and attacking it. I wondered about the unknown mechanisms that create the inheritance of mental traits like instincts. The big black and white cat paused and looked at me as if he had the answer if only I would learn to speak his language. It was time for me to get something to eat before the Merlot created any further ratiocinate thinking. My brain is not used to such endeavors.
There were frozen salmon steaks in the fridge, sent down from Anchorage after the last King Salmon run by an old hunting friend. Putting one in warm water in the sink to thaw, I wrapped a potato in tin foil and put it in the oven to bake. Stoking the fire, my attention was drawn to a book by James Bradley that I had been reading in small doses due to the powerful and brutal content. Bradley's father was one of the six Marines shown raising the American flag in the famous photograph taken by Joe Rosenthal on Iwo Jima on February 23, 1945, atop Mount Suribachi. The myths surrounding that photograph are many and varied. One needs to read this book to dispel them. Personally, I think this work, Flags of Our Fathers, and another, Flyboys, the first work of Bradley's, should be required reading for all Americans. The simple lesson I learned about that war in the South Pacific against the Japanese is that, had we not had the atomic bomb and proceeded to go ashore on the mainland of Japan, another one and a half million American boys would have been killed.
Something Rose said earlier came to mind, "We must not lose our dead." Wonder what she meant by that?
The rain continued to come down in sheets, and the wind picked up, strong enough to affect the flame in the fireplace. B.W. ate as much of the salmon as I, and after some inane television we retired early. Tomorrow brought interviews with a lawyer named Collinswood, and a banker named Pushkin who was reluctant to talk.
***
The fast moving cold front had passed through and the day dawned bright and clear, and somewhat warmer. It was one of those days that made a person glad to be alive. There is a softness in the air that follows a rain, like the respectful silence when the preacher asks the congregation to bow their heads for prayer. I, too, was careful to be quiet as I stepped out onto the porch and looked at the oak, cedar, pine, and hickory trees wet and gray and silent in front of the cottage. My breath formed little fog clouds into the morning and quiet of the woods.
After a quick shower, I dressed and drove to Lawyer Collinswood's office in Union. It was in a stand-alone building, located in the downtown area, and surprisingly neat with a modern brick façade, complete with the obligatory hand-carved wooden shingle hanging by ornate chains over the sidewalk.
Entering the building, a receptionist rose to greet me. She was mid-thirties, wore steel-rimmed glasses and a straight plain dress that could have been designed in the eighteen hundreds, and no wedding ring. I suspected she had a nice body under the " Little House on the Prairie" attire, but she seemed to have given up hope for marriage, or maybe simply didn't care anymore.
"You must be Mr. Leicester. Mr.
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