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Marcus Grey's Son

8/8/2016

Wow, I made it through my third book. This one took a while as life interfered too much. However — ta da!! Here it is.

Marcus Grey's Son is about Teller Grey, a twenty-year-old who has dreamed of being a Marine since he was a kid. He joins right after high school and life is good. He's doing what he's always wanted to do, and he's good at it. As he told his brother, Jackson, "I figured I'd be doing it until they kicked me out."

Instead, after just three years in the Corps, he finds himself a civilian again, guardian to his five younger half-brothers and sisters and his four young cousins. As Teller struggles to define his new role away from the Marines and his role as a parent, he also comes to grip with a non-existent personal life, which is pretty depressing, and personal attacks from an unknown adversary.

I hope you enjoy Teller's story. I know I did.

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Joe Taught Me That

12/31/2015

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Better late than never. My second novel was published on Amazon in September.
Unlike the first one, which was an action story, this is the story of a young man who is pulled from one kind of life and thrust into another. He has to learn how to live in this new situation while remaining true to himself.
I have had some good reviews, so I hope all who read it enjoy it as much as I did writing it.

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The Collective now available on Amazon

6/18/2015

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On June 15, 2015 my first novel, The Collective, was published as an e-book on Amazon.com. This has been a crazy week, which is appropriate when a dream comes true. The dedication on the book says it all, but for those who haven't seen it, all my thanks and heart go to my family who have given me all their love and unquestioning support while I have pursued this goal. Even when my day job as a needlework designer and teacher intruded, putting my writing on hiatus as I met other deadlines, they were there, encouraging me, pushing me, and believing in me.
And my special over-the-top thanks to my dearest BFF and biggest fan, my husband of almost forty-six years, Bill. I couldn't have done it without you, Love.

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Futterbees

2/26/2015

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Prompts:
>castles
>butterflies

Participants:
>Daniel's Shelf Blog

The growl of the engine and the ache in my head almost drown out Tilly's childish voice. I glanced quickly in the rearview mirror, catching her warm brown eyes. She smiled at me, and her eyes crinkled, just like her mother's. I pushed that thought away and concentrated on my daughter.

"What did you say, Tillyboo?"

"Birz, Papa." Birz? What the...

"Birds? What color are they?"

Her forehead wrinkled, and she gave me an exasperated look, just like Della's. "Boo." Like I should know. I grinned at her, and she beamed back.

"Boo birz, Papa."

She went back to looking out the window, probably trying to find more "boo birz", and I went back to brooding, mourning, whatever the heck it was called when your other half, your soul mate was gone suddenly. Ripped away more like it, I thought as I downshifted the truck to take the exit off I-5. The Focus would have been more economical for this long trip, but it was a mangled pile of metal and glass in some anonymous wrecking yard back in Portland. Thank the Lord the Ram had a backseat big enough for Tilly's car seat.

I drove slowly past the Chevron station and turned onto the road toward Castle Crags State Park. My throat tightened, and I swallowed hard. This had been one of Della's favorite parks. My sweet California girl had introduced this good ole Oregon boy to the park one unforgettable Memorial Day weekend, when we got a rare break from real life, her from her study of entomology at UC Davis and me from my job working construction on some dormitory remodels. I was in shock and awe that this smart amazing woman wanted anything to do with me, a simple construction worker with no plans to ever be anything else. I swallowed again, pushing down the memories of that weekend when I proposed.

I stopped at the Entrance Station to buy a day pass. Tilly was wriggling with pent-up energy, so I unbuckled her car seat and set her on the graveled parking lot. She ran around with her arms out, maybe pretending she was a blue bird. Stepping to the open window, I bought the pass while keeping my eye on my fluttering daughter. Maybe she'll grow up to be an ornithologist, I thought, as I pocketed my change and called to her.

"Tillyboo, let's go, sweetie. Just a few more minutes then you can run around all you want."

"Wun now, Papa."

I scooped her up as she whirled past, nuzzling her tummy with my rough chin. She giggled, and the sound was like a knife to my heart and a balm at the same time. She was still giggling as I buckled her back into her car seat and got behind the wheel.

I drove slowly through the inhabitable areas of the park, past picnic spots and campgrounds, ignoring the tug in my gut whenever I saw a family around a campfire or tent. Finally I reached the narrow road winding its way toward Vista Point. I squeezed the truck up against the bank a couple of times, giving the tourists in compact cars and motorcycles and one idiot in a mini-motor home room to pass.

Tilly was chattering in the back, pointing out everything her three-year-old eyes could take in. Half of it was incomprehensible to me so I nodded or said "wow" or "that's nice" whenever she paused. Della had understood every lisped and garbled word out of Tilly's rosebud mouth. Guess I'd have to pay more attention and learn toddler.

After one final turn and climb, I pulled into the parking lot at the head of the footpath to the viewpoint and parked close to the restrooms. Now came the fun part, getting city-raised Tilly to use an outhouse before the climb to our final destination. She had the mechanics down, but I wasn't sure how my fastidious little princess would do without her potty seat.

Getting out and shutting my door, I opened the back door and shrugged into my backpack. It always surprised me how light it was.

"Come on, Tillyboo, you can get out now." I unbuckled her again and lifted her down to the ground. Holding her hand, I pointed to the outhouse and explained what she needed to do before we hiked up the trail.

"I know, Papa," she said indignantly. Walking purposefully toward the wood and stone building, she drew up short and stopped. Suddenly shy of the unfamiliar structure, she turned and clung to my leg. After picking her up and talking to her softly as I edged toward the door, I managed to get her inside and get her business done with only a couple of tears and a soft, "don wike".

By the first turn on the trail, she had shaken off the fright of the outdoor toilet and was surging up the trail ahead of me, only to squat abruptly and point out a pinecone or a fern or a bug of some kind. I was fine explaining various plants, but I had always left the bugs to Della. Now I wished I'd paid more attention.

The July air was hot and dry, and I was sweating by the time we reached the wide spot where plaques explained what we were seeing and picnic tables invited us to sit and rest out legs. Tilly was cool and dry, in spite of running most of the way interspersed with unexpected stops to admire flora and fauna. She was also noticeably dirtier, but she didn't seem to mind. Maybe we could go camping later in the summer. But somewhere else. Not here. Never here.#

I picked Tilly up and walked around the perimeter of Vista Point, showing her the granite spires the park was named for. I told her this was one of Mama's favorite places. Her smooth little forehead wrinkled.

"Mama?"

I nodded. Della had only been gone a couple of months, but it seemed Tilly was forgetting her. It was to be expected. Tilly hadn't even had her third birthday when Della died, but it tore at my heart when she couldn't remember her mother. I pulled a photo up on my phone and showed it to her.

"Mama." She stared hard at the dark-haired woman who had given her brown eyes and curly hair. Gently, she touched the screen.

"Mama?"

"Yeah, baby. That's Mama." Softly I sang her the song Della sang almost everyday when she put Tilly down for her nap. Tilly's brown eyes lit up. She remembered the song, even if she couldn't remember the woman who had sung it. She looked around, maybe expecting to see Della. Her forehead wrinkled again, and her tiny shoulders dropped.

"No Mama."

"No, Tilly, no Mama."

I set her on a picnic table and placed my backpack gently beside her. Opening the top, I pulled out a plain cardboard box. I set it beside the tiny replica of Della and removed the lid, revealing a sack of gray ash. It amazed me what a vibrant healthy woman could be reduced to by a drunk driver and a crematorium. Not wanting to alarm Tilly, who was watching my every movement, I carefully took the bag out of the box.

"Papa's going to go over to the fence, Tilly. You stay here, please." I handed her the phone, switched to one of her favorite screens, Bubble Wrap. Leaving her happily popping away, I moved over to the fence keeping visitors safe from tumbling into the gorge below.

Removing the tie closing the bag, I looked around one last time to make sure Tilly and I were alone. Slowly I tipped the last remains of my heart, my love out into the soft California breeze. The ash floated gently then settled slowly into the gorge below the viewpoint. I stayed at the fence until the last haze had gone.

"Papa, wook."

I turned toward my daughter and froze. Amazement held me fast as I saw my sweet Tilly surrounded by a cloud of butterflies. Orange and black and white monarchs fluttered around her soft black curls, landing on her upturned cheeks and hands and shoulders. She held perfectly still as they floated around her for nearly five minutes. Then in a billow of color, they rose and drifted away.

"Futterbees, Papa."

"Yes, baby, futterbees." I picked up my heart, my love, my life and hugged her.

"Ready to go home, Tillyboo?" She nodded and snuggled her tiny head against my shoulder.

"Home, Papa."

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Stalking Two Legs

1/31/2015

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Prompts:
>walking
>tail lights

Participants:
>Daniel's Shelf Blog

My son and I decided on a 2015 challenge - one flash fiction a month, between 500 and 1500 words.

            Two Legs is so slow, no challenge for the Old Ones. But I am too small and clumsy to chase the Four Legs, so Aunt must train me on the Two Legs. These two will make me try harder. Two are harder to follow than one.

            I slink through the tall grass beside the Hard Barren Place, just as Aunt has taught me. My head and tail are low and quiet as I stalk the Two Legs. It is Darkness, the time of the Four Legs, and the Two Legs should be more alert. It is the time of killing and feeding, but they walk along the Hard Barren Place unaware I am here. Aunt stays back in the trees, watching. She is close enough to see me, to see if I am doing as she has taught me, but far enough away the Two Legs cannot see her.

            I can smell their stink. Strong like the musk of the big shaggy Four Legs but stinky like the foul smell of the small striped furry Four Legs. Aunt has told me Two Legs have bad noses. They cannot smell others of their kind without the stink they smear all over their ugly hairless bodies. I want to whine and rub my nose with my paws to wipe away the foul smell, but I cannot. I am hunting.

            The Two Legs make a lot of noise as they walk along the edge of the Hard Barren Place. Their chatter is louder than the feathery Two Wings Two Legs in the meadows near home. I have seen Aunt grab these out of the air as they fled. Aunt is very fast. The Two Legs are not fast, but they are too big for even Aunt to bring down alone. Aunt and Other Aunt have told all the cubs that Two Legs are for practice only. Even if we were big enough to bring one down, we are forbidden. Many Two Legs would come and hunt us if we kill and eat a Two Legs.

            I do not like hunting near the Hard Barren Place. It is too open and the ground is strange and hurts my pads. And it smells bad. Not like the stink the Two Legs use, more like the foul sticky black water that floats on top of the Wide Wet Place where Old Uncle has forbidden us to drink.

            Oldest Brother disobeyed Old Uncle once and drank from the Wide Wet Place. We had been chasing the small furry Big Foot Four Legs and Oldest Brother was thirsty. Brother and I told him Old Uncle said we could not drink from the Wide Wet Place, but Oldest Brother laughed and said Old Uncle was not here and would not know. Oldest Brother drank greedily, getting his muzzle wet and black. We began to chase Big Foot Four Legs again, but Oldest Brother coughed up the foul water. He coughed it all up then coughed up the stinging yellow water that always comes after eating something bad and coughing it up. Old Uncle punished Oldest Brother when we got home. Oldest Brother had the foul black water stuck to his nose and his paws and legs where it splattered when he had coughed it up.

            The Hard Barren Place has the same smell. The Two Legs do not notice as they walk along. They are making noise and snorting as they walk. Aunt thinks their snorting sound is the same as our laughing, but I do not think so. It is a strange loud bubbling sound, not like our happy silent laughing. They are holding their hairless paws strangely, waving them at the Fast Machines that travel the Hard Barren Place. When a Machine passes them they make loud angry noises and poke skinny parts of their paws in the air.

            I am close enough to see this, but they still do not notice me. I do not understand how there can be so many Two Legs when they are so blind to the dangers around them. If I were the pack I could bring both Two Legs down quickly and drag them away to eat and feed the Little Ones and all the Old Ones.

            Aunt says I must get close enough to see the strange eyes on the Two Legs. This is how I will know I am stalking them as I am trained. I creep closer, my belly nearly touching the ground, moving slowly and carefully so the grass around me does not move the wrong way. I am close enough to see the strange skins the Two Legs wear to cover their hairless bodies. I am close enough to smell the foul smell and see the strange black ground of the Hard Barren Place.

            A Fast Machine moves past me, frightening me with its noise and smell, but I do not run away. I move closer to the Two Legs. Then the Fast Machine stops. Bright red faces, round like the Yellow Face and the White Face but very small and close, are on the strange tailless back of the Fast Machine. On the side of the Fast Machine the skin moves and a hole appears and another Two Legs calls something to the ones I am stalking. The Two Legs I am stalking make loud sounds and run toward the Fast Machine. Another opening appears in the side of the Fast Machine closest to me. The Two Legs I am stalking go into the Fast Machine, the hole closes, and the Fast Machine growls loudly and starts moving away, the two tiny Red Faces fading into the night.

            I sigh loudly. I did not see their strange eyes. Now I must wait for more Two Legs to stalk before I can follow Aunt back home to eat what the pack has hunted while I have been training. I am very hungry. I hope I do not have to wait until the next Darkness.

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Vicissitude

12/16/2014

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Prompt:
<psychic lullaby

Participants:

Thanksgiving evening, as we sat around the table sharing what we were thankful for, we descended into wonderful silliness. My daughter and her friend Nate threw out a prompt for the writers in the family.
This is my answer to their challenge. Enjoy.

Mally laid her aching head down on the pillow. Why did no one tell her how tired she would be after having a child? Dear Creator, all she wanted to do was sleep.

The wail started as soon as she began to drift off. No! she wailed herself. Dragging her exhausted body out of bed, she staggered into the nursery. Go to sleep, Bunchy, please. She patted the tiny bundle on the back.

Hush little baby don't say a word.
Mama's gonna buy you a mocking bird.
And if that mocking bird don't sing,
Mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring.

The wails continued. Mally couldn't wait until Rayle got home from work so he could hold the baby while she stepped outside for fresh air and momentary quiet.

By the time Rayle walked through the front portal, Mally was in tears herself.

No better? Rayle asked, wrapping Mally in a hug. She shook her head miserably.

No! I must be doing something wrong!

Mally, you aren't doing anything wrong. It's our first one. We'll figure it out.

But Shaalis and Berrin are first-time parents, too, and Villy doesn't cry all the time.

Have you sung to him? Rayle asked. My mother sang to my little sister all the time. It always worked.

Of course, I have. My mother and the healer already told me that. Sing. Hah! Rayle picked the crying baby up, rubbing his back and walking the floor.

Rock-a-by baby, in the treetop,
When the wind blows, the cradle will rock,
When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall,
And down will come baby, cradle and all.

Rayle! Mally punched him playfully on the shoulder. Don't sing that. It's horrid!

Sleep, baby, sleep
Your father tends the sheep
Your mother shakes the dreamland tree
And from it fall sweet dreams for thee.

Mally and Rayle spent the rest of the evening walking Bunchy, singing to him, feeding him, and finally putting him in his crib. The poor little thing finally fell asleep, exhausted. The two shell-shocked parents collapsed on their bed.

Mally, I think we need to take him to the healer. Maybe he's really sick.

Oh, Rayle, no. Mally's face scrunched and her own tears flowed. The thought that the tiny little Bunchy might actually be ill frightened her. Illness was so rare. Do you think so?

Rayle nodded. I don't think we're doing anything wrong, but we are missing something.

The next morning the two worried parents sat in the healer's waiting room, flipping through the ancient holographs on the chair screens.

Why do healers never have any new holographs. Good grief, this one is three years old! Look how grainy the image is.

Rayle shrugged. Some things were just incomprehensible.

A tall thin woman entered, nodding to Mally as she approached. Mally. And you must be Rayle. She shook their hands, then took the screaming baby from them.

Sayah, I must be the worst mother in the world, Mally sobbed. He has hardly stopped crying since I was here last. I did everything you suggested. Please, help me. I'm afraid of what I'll do if he keeps crying. I'm just so tired.

Come, the healer said, motioning them back through the hallway into an exam room. Mally and Rayle sat, while Sayah stripped Bunchy down to his absorbent. The healer poked and prodded the baby while he wailed and sobbed.

Sayah reached behind her, into a cabinet, and produced a strange device, which she clamped firmly of Mally's ears. Bunchy's crying shut off and blessed silence reigned. But when Mally looked at her baby, he was still screaming. She just couldn't hear him. Mally jerked the device off and flung it onto the floor. Bunchy's crying came back at full volume.

What evil thing is that? she cried, pointing at the plastic and wire equipment lying next to Sayah's foot.

It is called headphones, Sayah said calmly.

Headphones?

Yes, it shuts all sound off from the ears. Centuries ago it was used for listening to music.

Why would anyone need those for listening to music? Rayle asked, perplexed.

Because centuries ago people spoke.

Spoke?

Sounds came out of their mouths. There is a little-used juncture in the trachea made of muscle and cartilage that contains two folded mucous membranes. Centuries ago, this organ was vibrated by air passing out of the lungs, creating sounds. Until recently, scientists thought it was a vestigial remnant from when man was more fish than mammal. Since the rediscovery of creation as a viable scientific hypothesis for the existence of the universe, this is being rethought. They now believe it was used to communicate. That is what produces laughter.

What...what does this have to do with Bunchy? Rayle finally found his thoughts enough to ask the question.

Bunchy is crying, using his vocal cords. Mally and Rayle sat, stunned.

The healer cuddled the screaming child. I want to try something.

"Lullaby and goodnight,
thy mother's delight,
bright angels beside
my darling abide."

The words, forced through little-used vocal cords, croaked out into the quiet room. Bunchy stopped crying and stared at Sayah's face. Smiling through his tears, he crowed little sounds none of the adults in the room had ever heard.

Bunchy cannot hear your psychic lullabies. He cannot hear your soothing words. He is psychically deaf. When Sayah returned to communicating with her mind, the baby puckered up his little face, ready to launch into another screaming fit.

Mally took him from Sayah, looked fearfully at her husband, opened her mouth, took a huge breath, and did something no mother had done in almost five hundred year. She sang to her baby.

"Hush little baby don't say a word.
Mama's gonna buy you a mocking bird.
And if that mocking bird don't sing,
Mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring."

Bunchy smiled, hearing his mother's voice for the first time.

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First Hunt

12/1/2014

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This is based on a true story that happened to my grandfather when I was eleven years old. I don't think he'd mind me crediting it to a new generation of hunters.

Key peeked out of the tent and shivered. More snow had fallen last night although the sky was clear, stars sparkling like cold little fires. Ducking back in, he pulled on his longjohns, his flannel-lined cords, his turtle neck, his flannel shirt, and a sweatshirt. He left the coat, hat, and gloves until after breakfast. Just have to take them off again when he got to the cook tent.

He pulled his waterproof boots on, not bothering to tie them. Just have to take them off again in the cook tent. Ma was real picky about her floor. Giving his brother Tye a shove to wake him up, he stepped out into his family's usual Thanksgiving wonderland. Shivering his way across the clearing, avoiding by memory the campfire ring, invisible in the predawn darkness, he ducked under the cook tent flap just in time to hear the end of an argument.

"I still say he's too young," Ma groused, "but you'll do like you want. Always do." She was piling pancakes onto plates set on the board table.

"Sara," Pa answered patiently, "he's ten. He should have gone out last year, but I caved. Not doing it this year. The boy has to learn to hunt. How else is he going to feed his family?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe go to college and get a good job in the city?"

"I don't want to live in the city," Key protested. "I want to live here." His mother turned, frustration on her face.

"Key, you need to look to your future."

"I am," Key asserted. "Besides, you and Pa both have college degrees, but we still need this elk for meat this winter. Don't see what a degree did for you." Ma threw Pa a really dirty look and turned back to the stove.

"Key, apologize. That's no tone to take with your mother."

"Sorry, Ma," the boy said miserably, "but I don't want to live in a box surrounded by a jillion other boxes. I want to live here."

"I know, Sweetie. I just worry about you. This kind of living isn't going to last forever."

Tye stumbled into the tent, bleary-eyed and needing a shave. "You guys arguing about the squirt again?" he asked, fumbling an enamel cup off the shelf and pouring himself some coffee.

"Ma doesn't want me to go," Key mumbled, thoroughly discouraged. He'd looked forward to his first elk hunt since he was too short to see the top of the camp table. Now Ma was pulling rank, trying to keep him a baby.

"Ma, come on. He's plenty old enough. I was nine when I first went."

"Fine! Whatever!" Ma snapped. "You three are going to gang up on me. I might as well give up now."

Breakfast was quiet at first, everyone uncomfortable with the argument. But then Pa started outlining strategies, and the three males started making plans for the day. The first day of elk season was important. The sooner they got their meat, the sooner they could pack up and go home, leaving the woods to the amateurs, the rich guys from Portland, who came up more to drink and act stupid than get an elk. It was all a holiday to them.

To the four people sitting in the canvas tent that smelled of creosote and cooking grease, this was deadly serious business. No elk meant very little meat over the winter. Lots of beans, mac 'n cheese, and peanut butter. Ma and Pa were teachers and darn good ones, but a teacher's salary didn't stretch very far. They'd gotten two bucks last month during deer season. One was turned into sausages and jerky, and was sitting in their freezer at home. They gave the other to Pa's folks. Gramps had broken his leg falling off a hay wagon in August and couldn't go out with them. They needed the meat as much as Key and his family.

By the time dawn broke over the mountains to the east, Key was sitting on a stand, waiting. Tye and Pa were walking the ridge and the gully, hoping to flush something toward him. He was a good shot. Been shooting since he was too small for the 32 Special he cradled in his arms. If they flushed a bull elk to him, he'd hit it.

The first drive was a bust, so they all moved downhill, toward the Chinaman, a valley north and west of the camp. Pa plunked Key on top of a big stump. Surrounded by thin leafless bushes, he'd be hard to see but could see out fine. Then Pa and Tye slipped over the edge of the hill, down into the Chinaman. They'd drive up this time, hoping to spook any elk hiding in the pucker brush lower down the ravine.

Key sat with his hands between his legs, trying to keep them warm. He didn't blow on them. Elk would hear. He'd been sitting maybe ten minutes when he heard movement down the hill, but south of where Pa and Tye had gone over. He listened hard. The sound was a soft scrape, a sigh, then nothing. Key reminded himself to keep breathing, slow and shallow like Gramps had taught him. No more sounds. The sounds had been downwind, so he decided to look. It was too soon for Pa and Tye to begin the drive up the hill.

Carefully, as quietly as he could, he slipped the bolt on the rifle and chambered a round, then he moved quietly and slowly. Standing at sloth speed, he worked his way carefully out of the brush. Placing each boot precisely, avoiding lumps that might be rocks promising sprained ankles, he ghosted silently toward where the sounds had been. Another patch of brush, a big patch, showed some activity. Broken branches, some hair caught in the breaks, told him some kind of animal had been here.

He plucked one dark brown tuft from a branch and sniffed. Elk. Looked like mane hair, not body hair, which meant a bull. Holding the 32 Special at the ready, he worked his way through the bushes. He was small and thin, which made it easier, but his clothes were bulky, which meant he still had to move with care. Ten glacial minutes later, he could see a small clearing in the middle of the brush. Maybe ten feet across, it had been made by stomping the bushes flat.

Key moved closer, trying to see the ground. He froze, forgetting to breathe. That's not possible, his brain said. He shook his head once to clear it. The light was still pretty weak, so he had to have misunderstood what he saw. He peeked again. It was still there.

Avoiding the grasping branches, he brought the rifle to his shoulder, took a bead, and fired.

Ma met them coming back into camp. She looked at her watch then the sky.

"What are you doing back? Is someone hurt? Are you all OK?" Pa opened the back of the green pickup, showing Ma the head of a five-point bull.

"You got one already?" she asked, disbelief warring with surprise.

"Actually," Pa said, pulling Key forward, "this young man snuck up on it while it slept. Pop couldn't have done any better." Key blushed, pleased. Gramps was the best hunter in the world.

"How in the world did you do that?" Ma asked, pride beaming from her eyes.

"Oh, you know, just snuck along quiet-like." Key smiled modestly. He could see some good roasts and stews in their future, and he had done it.

Him alone.

On his first hunt.

Best day ever!

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Sweet Tooth

11/28/2014

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Prompts:
    >retirees
    >autumn leaves
    >candy
    >ceiling fan

Participants:
Retired Plans
Jack

Dex stood staring at the grand house and the wide-open French-walnut-and-stained-glass door. No one would walk away and leave the door wide open on a McMansion like this, even if it was a crisp autumn day, the kind Portland was known for with bright cerulean sky, blazing gold and red deciduous trees mixed with the stark blue-green of the pines and Douglas firs, and a brisk wind stirring the naked rose bushes and shiny green Rhododendrons.

A green Subaru Forrester pulled up the steep aggregate concrete driveway, and a harried young woman in a lime green hoodie popped out, texting on her cell phone while she sipped on a grande hot drink. Seeing Dex, she tapped a bit more, then tucked her phone into the shocking pink backpack swinging from her right shoulder.

"Are you Detective Tripper?" she asked. Dex nodded and started to reply, but the woman continued talking.

"Have you found Mother and Father? Was there...foul play?" Foul play? Seriously?

"I haven't enter..."

"Because I know they would never leave the house open and unattended. They always have a house sitter. Have you talked to her? Maybe she is involved in some nefarious plot to..." Nefarious? Good grief!

"Ms. Miller!" Dex spoke sharply. "Stop. Calm down. Your folks are wealthy retirees. Surely they often go on trips without telling you."

DeeDee Miller frowned at the detective. "You do know who I am, don't you, Detective Tripper?" Oh, ye gods, she is going to pull the old 'do you know who I am' card. Crap! It's going to be a long day.

"Yes, Ms. Miller, you are an assistant pre-school teacher. Now, back to your parents. Do they often go on trips without telling you?" C'mon, lady, get your head out of your my-parents-are-rich ass and give me some help here.

"Well, yes, but..."

"How often?" Dex got his notepad and a pen out. Might as well look like I give a rat's ass about Mom and Pop Moneybags taking off for St. Tropez or Martinique.

"Last month they ran down to Barbados for a few days." Barbados. Must be nice. "Uhm...three months ago they flew to Rio for a week." Ooo la la. Rio. Sheesh! "I can't remember before that."

"So them taking off isn't anything unusual?" Dex put his notebook in his pocket.

"But they wouldn't," Ms. Miller said. "Yesterday was my birthday. They wouldn't miss that." Sighing, Dex took his notebook out of his pocket.

"So, they never miss your birthday?" He poised his pen to write.

"Don't be silly. Of course they've missed my birthday, but they wouldn't..."

"How many birthdays have they missed?"

"Uhm...my thirteenth, twentieth, twenty-third, twenty-seventh, and twenty-eighth. But they wouldn't miss this one. It was my thirtieth. They promised me a new car. They promised!" Dex looked pointedly at the Subaru.

"That was used. Mother gave it to me when she got her new Lexus. They promised me a new BMW. They promised!" Get a grip, lady. You're thirty, not sixteen. Great! Another headache.

"When did you notice they were missing?"

"Yesterday, of course." Of course. Why check on the old folks if there wasn't anything in it for her.

"So they could have left several days ago? Maybe they had car trouble and couldn't make it back." Yeah, maybe their Lexus broke down.

"They always take the plane when they go very far." The plane. Of course they do.

"And the plane is hangared where?" Pen poised.

"I already checked. It's still there. It's the first thing I did. I'm not stupid." Not touching that with a ten-foot pole.

"Maybe we should check inside?" Dex gestured toward the front door.

DeeDee Miller looked at the beautiful front door like it was a gaping mouth with fangs. "Uhm...maybe you could go first? I'm so afraid I'll find..."

"Of course. Stay out here if you like." Left hand on the butt of his 9mm, right holding his shield, Dex rapped on the open door, nudging it further open.

"Portland Police. Mr. and Mrs. Miller? I'm coming into the house." Slowly Dex stepped through the front door, immediately looking left and right before going further. No bad guys in sight. No sign of 'foul play', whatever that looks like.

Bright autumn leaves were fluttering back and forth across the center of the inlaid stone foyer, the wind coming through the open door creating rippling waves of red and maroon and gold. More drifted lazily through the door as Dex watched.

Above the rustling happy sounds of the leaves caressing the black and white floor, Dex could hear another sound. Sort of a whoosh whoosh. What the heck?

Before moving toward the sound on his right, Dex cleared the small sunny room just to the left of the front door. Empty. Crossing the foyer, he cautiously poked his head around the door frame to another room. The dining room. The whoosh was coming from one of the doorways across from him.

Quick check of the left door. The kitchen. Drawing a deep breath, Dex gripped the comforting but of his gun. "Police!" he said loudly. Nothing. Crap, I hate closed doors. He pushed the door open slowly, the whoosh getting louder, now accompanied by a creak. Gad, I am such a pansy.

Opening the door to the sunny room all the way, he saw the fake palm leaf blades of the ceiling fan twirling lazily. The movement was reflected off water puddled on the floor. Oh, crap! Not water, blood.

A door to his left squeaked open. Dex moved right, pulled his gun, and turned left in one smooth practiced motion, drawing a bead on...

"Ms. Miller, I thought you were going to wait outside," he snapped, holstering his pistol. DeeDee Miller was a statue, not from looking down the barrel of a 9mm Glock, but because of the blood.

"Is that...oh, my, god, is that...whose...is...are they..." The thump when her head hit the floor was fortunately muffled by her hoodie. Great. More paperwork.

Twenty minutes later, Ms. Miller was holding an ice pack to her head and the Forensic Evidence Division was bagging up the remnants of fur and gristle that had once been a cat.

"Probably feral," the FED tech said, dropping bits of fur into a plastic evidence bag. Holding up a gnawed bone, he turned it around a bit. "Probably coyote," he said just as DeeDee Miller barfed on the EMT's shoes.

A patrolman poked his head into the sunroom. "Dex, some old guy and his wife are..." A short stocky man wearing a black cashmere sweater over grey worsted pants pushed his way past the cop.

"What is the meaning of this?"

"Daddy?" Daddy?

"Deedums, what is going on? What are all these...people doing in my house?" A short stocky woman wearing a black cashmere sweater over a grey worsted skirt pushed past the cop, who threw his hands in the air and left, was scolding as she entered.

"Mommy?" Mommy? What thirty-year-old calls...not going there.

"Where have you been?" Deedums shrilled. "Your door was open. You didn't answer your cell phones. Your weren't here for my birthday!"

"Harrington, I told you that lock wasn't working. I told you that three weeks ago," Mrs. Moneybags...er, Miller shrilled in an eerie imitation of her daughter. Or would that be the other way around?

"Yes, Pennypoo, I know you did. I'll get it fixed right away." Dex wasn't sure he could process one more cutesypoo nickname.

"And that mess in the foyer! It will have to be thoroughly cleaned."

"Yes, Sweetums."

“And this...is that blood?"

The EMT produced another ice pack for Mrs. Sweetums...er, Miller when she regained consciousness.

"Mr. Miller," Dex said, withdrawing his notepad and pen. Mr. Miller fussed around his wife, ignoring Dex.

"Mr. Miller!" Dex snapped. "If you could spare me a few minutes, I have some questions."

Harrington Miller frowned at the detective. "You do know who I am, don't you, Detective?" Oh, ye gods, not him, too.

"Yes, Mr. Miller, you are someone who has been reported missing and has wasted the department's time because you, in fact, not missing. I'd like to find out why you are not missing so I can file my report and go home."

"Of course, I'm not missing. I'm right here." Dex rolled his eyes.

"Where were you, Mr. Miller?" he asked, pen poised over his notepad.

"And what business is that of yours?" Lord give me strength.

"Just trying to close this file, Mr. Miller. Your daughter reported you missing. I have a report to file." Mr. Miller looked down his nose at Dex, then shrugged.

"We were in Cannon Beach." Dex wrote Cannon Beach.

"And why didn't you call your daughter to let her know?"

"We tried to call her from the car, but I forgot my cell and Pennypoo's was dead." Dex wrote dead cell phone.

"And why didn't you call her from the hotel?"

"What hotel? We intended to drive down and back yesterday." Dex wrote down and back.

"But you didn't get back until today."

"We took Pennypoo's car." Mr. Miller's voice strained through his clenched jaw. "Apparently she doesn't believe the warning lights, warning voice, and text messages her car sends when it needs oil. The engine froze thirty miles out of Seaside." Dex wrote no oil, frozen engine.

"Seaside?"

"Yes, we had time so we decided to wander home." Dex wrote wander.

"And that took you until this morning?"

"Of course not. We spend most of the night in the car waiting for someone to find us." Dex had no clue what to write.

"Find you?"

"Yes. Can you believe there was only one truck in twelve hours? One truck!"

"One truck? On highway 101?"

"No, on Lewis and Clark Road." Dex wrote Lewis and Clark Road.

"Out of Seaside?"

"Yes, it goes east from Seaside. Right after some coffee stand." Dex started to write and stopped. He was getting lost.

"Mr. Miller, why did you go to Cannon Beach?"

"For candy?"

"Candy?"

"Yes, there's a candy store there that Pennypoo loves."

"A candy store?"

"Yes. I can't remember the name, but they have lovely homemade chocolates that..."

"That Pennypoo loves." Dex wrote candy Pennypoo loves, closed his notebook and left. He couldn't wait to see the captain's face when he turned in this report.

I'm getting too old for this shit!

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