A copy of the first Nancy Drew mystery was stolen in mid-April from a locked case i
n a Savannah antique mall. The book was a first edition/first printing which, of course, makes it quite valuable. I saw one listing priced at $2,000.
I was more into the Hardy Boys, but I did read a few books in this series as a youngster.
According to the news report I read, the thief was caught on a surveillance camera, but I couldn’t find an update to see if the book had been recovered.
There’s nothing so gorgeous as a Florida sunset and this Sunday night’s was no different. Sitting on the lanai, I was watching the brilliant glow from the setting sun against a pale blue sky in the west. Overhead, a dark cloud hung like a menacing presence, the hulking remnants of the cold front that had passed through the region earlier. The air around me was turning cooler, but enough that I needed to change to warmer clothing.The slider slide open, then closed, and I sensed Vicky’s presence behind me before her cool hand touched the back of my neck. Beside me, Patton, my goofy black Lab, lifted his head, then lay back down when he realized no attention was coming his way.“What are thinking about out here, sweetie?”
“Nothing really,” I replied. “Just a mental drifting.”
As she moved around to join me in the other chair, her cell phone rang. She glanced at the screen and frowned.
“It’s the club. I have to take this.”
She left me then, returning to the warmth inside. Patton raised his head, disturbed by the disruption to his sleepiness. Unusual for someone to be calling from the club at this hour. It wouldn’t open for another three hours or so. And given her duties these days, Vicky oftentimes didn’t need to be there when the real fun was going on.
Truth be told, I hadn’t lied to her just moments ago. But I hadn’t been forthcoming either.
I wasn’t mental drifting. My thoughts were laser focused.
It’d been four months since I’d made my promise to Vicky, the promise that had led me to call the director of SEOPs shortly after Vinnie, BB and I had returned from Arkansas, and Vicky and I returned from Virginia.
The director hadn’t been pleased when I told him I was quitting. I was one of his best agents, along with BB, he’d told me. When flattery didn’t work, he cajoled me, then resorted to the oath I’d taken and reminded me of my patriotic duty to God and country.
True, once a Marine, always a Marine, but my girl meant everything to me and I remained steadfast in my desire to leave the agency.
Was I happy about it.
Still, Vicky had been thrilled when I told her I’d made the call, and since then, we’d settled down to a peaceful life in sleepy Porto Cielo. She continued working for RJ as his executive assistant for the Smuggler’s Inn and his other enterprises.
Well, I went for long walks on the beach with Patton. I read the newspapers online, analysed the ongoing crises across the world, wondered what BB and other friends at SEOPS might be doing.
I was bored. I needed, no I craved, activity.
I shivered and realized how much cooler it had gotten now that the sun was below the horizon.
“C’mon Patton. Time to go inside.”
He rose and we headed inside.
I’ve never been asked this question, but now, with the publication of Dancing with a Dead Man, I want to tell you how the book came about.
Several years ago, there was a story in the newspaper about a woman going through the toll booths on the Sunshine Skyway up here in Tampa. Somehow, she hit a person who went through the windshield of her car.
And there was my “what if” moment.
I started writing the story that way, with Vicky’s grandmother being the woman in the car. That didn’t work, however.
So, after much ruminating, I moved the location to downtown Sarasota, which I know well, and changed the details of what happened.
Throw in the lost gold of the Confederacy….well that’s a story for another day.
I survived the trip to Ikea yesterday (April 7).
It was actually to accompany Tymber and Bill on Trish’s maiden voyage there (Trish took this picture from the parking lot). We met up with them in the restaurant for lunch — the Swedish meatballs are the best — before venturing forth.
If you’ve never been to an Ikea store, they are huge. Furnishings, accessories and other items for every room of your home are available. Trish went with the purpose of obtaining bookshelves. But who can resist the allure of all those consumer goods begging for placement in your cart.
Tymber and I weren’t immune either, but the monetary damage wasn’t huge. My one regret was not finding square frames for some of my cross stitch pieces. Found every size of rectangles you can imagine, but nary a square frame.
We departed after three hours, or maybe it was two, headed home, where a very pissed off Kiwi awaited us. She made her displeasure at being left all along in her crate apparent. After tending to her, the cats, birds and menagerie outside, I collapsed for the evening, and finished the Randy Wayne White book I was reading, Deep Blue.
I’ve watched a lot of cop/detective shows over the years, but not so much recently as none have captured my attention as much as these older shows did. And among the best, in my opinion, was Hill Street Blues.
The characters were flawed, their personal lives blended into their work lives, and all affected how each episode developed. Never before had the cop/detective genre taken such an approach and the show’s creator, Steven Bochco, was a genius in his new approach.
The drama was gritty, it portrayed life in a big, urban environment much as it really is, and that added to the realism.
Bochco passed away Easter Sunday. Eventually, another genius will arise, but he or she will have to go far to surpass Bochco. R.I.P.
I love to cross stitch. It’s my hobby and a way to relax. My favorite pieces to stitch are usually Christmas related, since it’s my favorite time of the year. But I found this piece, and it reminded me so much of fall in my native Ohio, I just had to do it. So, after a couple of years of off and on stitching, it’s finally done.
On this day, 44 years ago, my then wife and I didn’t open presents. We didn’t have the traditional Christmas dinner. Instead, we spent the day at the hospital in Lima, Ohio, and our celebration centered on the birth of our first son, Jonathan.
For whatever reason, Jon decided he wanted to wait and be an almost Christmas baby, as he was way overdue. We decided later that my slipping and falling on the steps into our trailer was what precipitated his arrival.
The labor was long, and I kept pacing the waiting room, wondering what the delay was, but something that evening, Jon finally made his appearance much to our relief.
Forty-four years later, many of the minute details have blurred in my mind, but I’ll never forget the joy at holding him in my arms for the first time.