“Mr. Anderson! Hello! I didn’t see you there.”
“Hi there, Zoe. Don’t worry about it. I get that all the time. How are you and your friends doing today?”
“Just fine, Mr. Anderson. Are you here by yourself?”
I shrugged, “Just trying to get some writing done, only I can’t seem to concentrate today.”
Zoe nodded thoughtfully, “Well, you should take the dogs on a walk through the park. Throw the ball around. I know Sherlock and Watson both love that. It’ll help you clear your head.”
Zoe may only be 13, but she sure sounded a lot older. I smiled at the teenager and gave her a nod of thanks.
“I may end up doing just that. Shouldn’t you be in school right now?”
Zoe grinned at me. “Parent-teacher conferences are happening today. We get the day off!”
“I remember those, and I won’t even begin to tell you how many years ago that was. So, where are you off to?”
Zoe shrugged, “Anywhere other than home. We were thinking about catching a movie. There’s a new CGI movie, with animated dogs in it, that looks really good.”
I knew the movie Zoe was talking about, and it did not sound good in the slightest. Then again, to be fair, I was most certainly not in the movie studio’s target demographics.
“I’m sure it’ll be good. Have some popcorn for me. Good to see you, Zoe!”
“You, too, Mr. Anderson. And we will!”
I returned my attention to my laptop when a large family passed by. A large loud family. I quickly glanced down at the dogs, to see how they were dealing with all the yelling, but thankfully, both corgis were content to watch. Realizing the fine art of people-watching was more entertaining than writing (for the time being), I closed my notebook and shut off my computer.
“Give that back to your brother, Timmy,” the harassed young father snapped.
“But… he’s had his turn,” a young boy of six or seven pouted. “It’s my turn now!”
“Timothy Daniel,” a woman’s voice began, “if you don’t give that electronic game back to your brother, then I’m confiscating it and you’ll both be out of luck.”
The seven-year-old slammed the game down onto the sidewalk in frustration. A wide-receiver who had just scored a tie-breaking touchdown couldn’t have spiked the ball any better. The toy, understandably, shattered into a million pieces.
“That’s it! I’ve had it! You’ve just lost all your video game privileges,” the father snapped. “All of you.”
This brought cries of protest from the rest of the kids. I could still hear their screams of indignation well after I lost sight of them. I looked down at the dogs and ruffled their fur.
“Wow. Can’t imagine what that household is like, can you?”
Another family then walked by. This one was the polar opposite of the first. The two kids, a boy and a girl who were probably 5 and 6, were laughing, holding the hands of their parents, and clearly having a good time. The kids were well behaved, well mannered, and spoke when spoken to. Sherlock snorted once and then turned to look at me, as if he couldn’t believe two families could be that different from one another.
“I know, right?”
“People watching, huh?”
The voice startled me more than I cared to admit, and I’m ashamed to say that I jumped in my chair, as though I had sat down on a buzzer. Even the dogs let out a few warning woofs. Then, both of them caught sight of who had spoken and they began wriggling with excitement. Again.
“Hey, Vance. How’s it goin’, amigo?”
“You’re jumpy today. Where’s Jillian?”
“Yeah, yeah. She’s teaching a cake-decorating class and will be tied up for the next couple of hours. Since I have some time to kill, I thought I’d grab a bite to eat and work on my latest book.”
Vance slid out a chair and promptly sat, which made me smile. He hadn’t bothered asking for permission. Then again, he also knew he didn’t need to, and that’s what I liked about him.
“How’s your day going?” I wanted to know.
“It’s goin’,” Vance admitted.
The waitress arrived just then and looked questioningly at my table’s newest arrival.
“Good afternoon. Welcome to Casa de Joe’s. Can I get you something to drink? A margarita, perhaps?”
Vance shook his head. “I’m still on duty. Do you have Dr. Pepper? I’ll have one of those, thanks.”
“You look stressed out, pal,” I announced. “Overwhelmed at work? Is there anything the dogs and I can do?”
Vance shook his head, “No, I’m afraid not. I’m currently dealing with a rash of burglaries.”
I perked up at this. “Oh? How serious?”
“Just some petty thefts. I suspect it’s just a couple of bored teenagers. I’ve been trying to figure out how to catch them at it. Little punks.”
Thirty minutes later, we were enjoying our lunch and watching a steady stream of people wander by. The waitress arrived with another beer for me, a refill for Vance’s Dr. Pepper, and a fresh bowl of chips and salsa. I took a healthy pull from my bottle, grabbed a handful of chips, and leaned back in my chair. I had just caught my detective friend staring at me again, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say he was working up the courage to ask me something. Curiosity piqued, I decided to wait for Vance to speak his mind. Whatever it was, I was pretty sure it wasn’t police related, since if it was, he would have already said something by now. I know he’s not a fan of my writing, seeing how he doesn’t care for the romance genre, so it couldn’t be that. The only thing left was the winery. What, did he want to put a hold on a bottle or two from the next batch of wine? Crossing my legs at the ankles, I stared at my friend and waited for him to tell me what was on his mind.
Vance caught me giving him a quizzical look and ended up chuckling. “Fine. You clearly know something is up. Well, you’re right. I, uh, have a favor to ask of you. And, just to let you know, it’s okay if you tell me ‘no’.”
“What’s on your mind?” I wanted to know.
“How long does it take for you to write a book?”
I blinked a few times. Of all the things that could have come out of Vance’s mouth, this wasn’t anywhere on the list.
“Huh? You want to know about my writing? Since when?”
My friend let out a nervous cough. “Er, please answer the question, would you? From start to finish, how long does it take?”
“From the time I think of an idea until a reader is holding a physical copy of the book?” I asked.
Vance nodded.
I grunted and gave the question some consideration.
“Well, when I first started writing, I was releasing one title a year. Now, I’m up to five or six. It usually takes me a month or two to write, depending how the story flows. Then, another month is spent on edits, rewrites, and formatting. All in all, about three months. Level with me, buddy. Where’s this coming from? Why do you ask? Are you thinking about writing a book?”
“Hell no,” Vance said, shuddering. “You gotta know your own strengths and weaknesses. Writing is definitely not a strength.”
“Okay. Well, what’s going on?”
“Look. Tori and I will be celebrating our 15th anniversary next summer. I wanted to do something for her that really stands out.”
“And how do I fit into this picture?” I curiously asked. “And congrats, by the way.”
“Thanks. Listen, I was hoping I could get you to create a character in one of your stories based off of her. We both know she’s a huge fan of your books. I’d like to see her face light up when she realizes she’s reading about a character based on herself.”
I pulled out a notebook and reached for my favorite mechanical pencil, which, as strange as it sounds, I always carry with me.
“So, do you want this story to be about her? Or, do you want the protagonist to look like her and have the same name?”
“Isn’t that the same thing?” Vance asked.
&nb
sp; I shook my head, “Not even close. I’ll be honest, pal. I usually don’t model characters off of people I know. But you and Tori are friends, and I will break my own rules for friends.”
“I have no idea what to say to that,” Vance quietly admitted.
“You don’t have to say anything,” I told him. “Now, there’s the easy way and the hard way. The easy way deals with me basing one of my protagonists off of Tori. I’ll make her physically look like her, sound like her, adopt her mannerisms, vocal inflections, and so on. However, this character will still do what I want them to do and follow a specified plot.”
“And that’s the easy way?” Vance asked, incredulously.
“Yep.”
“And, uh, what’s the hard way?”
“That’d be uncharted waters for me,” I answered. “I would listen to your ideas about a story, ask a lot of questions about what Tori likes and dislikes, and craft a fictional story around her.”
“You’ve never done that before,” Vance guessed.
I nodded, “Correct.”
“Sorry, Zack. I never realized it’d be so much work. I’ll just come up with something else to do for Tori. I don’t want to put your other books on hold.”
Vance finished off his soda and promptly ordered a beer.
“Didn’t you say you were on duty?” I casually asked.
Vance nodded and then glanced at his watch. “I was when I sat down, but now? I’m off. Forced time off, if you want to get technical. Chief Nelson said accumulating too much time off looks bad on the books, so starting next week, I’m on a forced vacation.”
I grunted by way of acknowledgment. An idea had occurred, and I was busy jotting my notes while my memory was still fresh. Sadly, if inspiration struck, and I didn’t write it down, then there would be a snowball’s chance in hell I’d remember it at a future date.
“What are you writing in there?” Vance wanted to know.
“Ideas.”
“Ideas? About what?”
“Ideas for a new period piece that just came to me.”
“Would this have Tori in it?” Vance hopefully asked.
I nodded, “It would. Tori is Irish, isn’t she?”
Vance nodded, “Right. Her mother’s side of the family practically all came from County Cork, in Ireland.”
“County Cork, Ireland,” I softly muttered, as I hastily scribbled more notes. “That’s perfect. Has she ever been there?”
“No,” Vance said, shaking his head. “She’s always wanted to go.”
“Mm-hmm,” I mumbled, as I added more notes.
“Just don’t make her the bad guy,” Vance pleaded.
Confused, I looked up. “Why would you say that?”
“You called her ‘protagonist’ earlier, didn’t you? Isn’t that the story’s villain?”
“Pro,” I clarified. “Protagonist is the hero, or heroine, for that matter. Antagonist would be your villain.”
“Oh. Umm, are you really going to do this? Write a book about Tori?”
“I’m going to write a book set in the mid-19th century,” I corrected.
“The mid-19th century?” Vance repeated, puzzled. “Why?”
“Hear me out, as this just came to me. From the years 1845 through about 1849, I believe, the Emerald Isle suffered through the great Irish Potato Famine. The vast majority of people either starved or died off. I’m thinking I’ll set the story in County Cork, and have our story’s heroine, Tori, battling unsurmountable odds as she struggles to keep her family alive during the worst catastrophe anyone has ever seen.”
“Holy cow, she’s gonna love that,” Vance all but whispered, as a smile crept over his face. “She loves Irish stories, and anything pertaining to Ireland. Hey, umm, I may not know much about writing books, but, er, aren’t you supposed to be writing stories your publisher wants you to write?”
I nodded, “Very true. Lucky for me, I have a completed backlog of five titles, which means if I wanted to take a year off, I could. As it happens, I’m not. Once I finish the title I’m working on now, I was planning on taking the next couple of months off. No, don’t argue, pal. I can do this for you two. Consider it an anniversary present.”
“But what if your publisher doesn’t want to publish it?”
“Then I’ll self-publish it,” I answered. “Vance, don’t worry. I’ve got this. This will be our secret. Well, I’ll probably let Jillian know what I’m doing, but it’ll only be the three of us.”
“Can I pay you to do this?”
I shook my head, “Nope. As it is, if this book happens to take off, then, more than likely, I’ll be splitting the proceeds with you guys.”
“Do you need anything from me?”
I nodded, and pointed to Vance’s jacket.
“It’s time to pull out your notebook. I’m going to need to know anything you can tell me about Tori. Favorite color, favorite foods, where she likes to travel, likes and dislikes, favorite sayings, mannerisms, and so on. Do you see where I’m going with this?”
Vance was writing so fast in his notebook that I briefly thought the friction of lead on paper would light it on fire.
“I gotcha, pal. Thank you for this.”
“It’s my pleasure. I’ll sketch out a possible outline in the next couple of days, and when I do, we’ll get together, go over it, and see if there’s anything we need to change.”
“I’m gonna owe you big, aren’t I?” Vance groaned.
I grinned at my friend, “Oh, you’d better believe it, amigo.”
“Have you and Jillian picked a date yet?”
“I think we have the date of our wedding narrowed down to fall, but that’s it. September, maybe? I don’t know. I just smile and nod whenever she asks me anything about it.”
“September?” Vance incredulously repeated. “Wow. That’s only a month away. You guys don’t waste any time, do you?”
“Of next year, you nitwit,” I chuckled. “We only got engaged earlier this year in Monterey, remember?”
Vance nodded, “Oh, right. Gotcha. Thought that was kinda quick.”
“I’m thinking indoor wedding, but I know Jillian would love for the ceremony to happen outside. The problem with that is…”
Vance looked up at me after I trailed off.
“What? What’s the problem?”
At that exact moment, both corgis woke from their nap, lifted their heads, and looked out at the street. For the record, they noticed the same thing I had, which caused me to lose my train of thought.
I should explain. For the past fifteen minutes, Vance and I had been watching the people meander by, on Main Street. For the most part, the townsfolk appeared happy, content, and intent on reaching their destination without lingering too long in one spot. That’s why he stood out so much.
I had trailed off the moment I clapped eyes on the guy. He was short, being no taller than 5’4”. He had a slim, athletic build, dark brown hair, and a full, trimmed beard. If I had to guess his age, I’d say he was in his late twenties. I can’t speak for Vance, but my eyes were drawn to this guy because of his outfit: faded blue jeans, and a button-down, collared, maroon shirt. But the kicker was the floor-length black duster he was wearing. He almost looked like a young Chuck Norris, only thanks to that black jacket he was wearing, I could now picture him dodging bullets in slow-mo.
Proof positive I’ve watched too many movies.
I looked over at Vance, hooked my thumb at the strange sight, and indicated my detective friend should take a look. Once he did, Vance turned back to me with a querulous look on his face.
“He sure sticks out, doesn’t he?” he eventually decided. “I wonder who he is.”
“Whoever he is, he’s certainly not from around here,” I added.
As if to prove my point, the stranger looked pointedly up at the nearest street sign, then stepped back a few steps so he could observe the passing townsfolk, and finally, pulled out his cell phone, as if to confirm an address. We saw the strange
r look back up at the street sign, nod once, and then began to study the nearby businesses. He was clearly looking for something. After a few moments, he slid his phone back into an interior jacket pocket, but not before allowing us to see the butt of a gun sticking out of a shoulder holster.
“Did you see that?” I asked, as I turned to Vance.
My friend solemnly nodded. “Yeah, I did.”
“Maybe he’s a cop?” I suggested.
Vance shrugged, “Based on his outfit, he more than likely has a CCW permit. Ten bucks says he’s looking for Wired Café.”
I wordlessly pulled out a ten and dropped it on the table. Together, we watched the guy study the stores. Then, as if he knew we were talking about him, the strange guy suddenly turned and looked straight at us. The Matrix wannabe checked his phone again, nodded, and then started walking in our direction. Confused, I turned to Vance.
“I know he’s not coming over here for me. What about you? Do you know him?”
“I’ve never seen him before,” Vance assured me.
“Afternoon,” the young guy said, as he arrived at the Casa de Joe’s terrace. Damned if he didn’t have a southern accent, too. Completing the picture was a subtle tip of his hat. “Would one of you be Detective Vance Samuelson?”
I turned to look at Vance, grinned victoriously, and snatched the money off the table.
“Told you he wasn’t here for me. That’s him, pal,” I said, as I looked up at the stranger.
“I’m Detective Samuelson,” Vance formally said, rising to his feet. “Can I help you with something?”
The bearded man nodded, “I hope so. I was told I could find you here. Ashley Binson, of the U.S. Marshall Service.”
My eyebrows shot up. Did he just say his name was ‘Ashley Benson’? Wasn’t that the name of an actress? I know I’ve heard it somewhere. And ‘Ashley’? You don’t hear of many guys being called by that name. This one was a U.S. Marshall? And he’s here, in Pomme Valley? Well, at least that would explain the getup. And the gun.
Vance automatically shook the guy’s hand.
Case of the Dysfunctional Daredevils Page 2
