Fox Island (4 page)

“Nah, I don’t want to wear that.”

“Tony, you just said it didn’t matter.”

The back door squeaked open and slammed
shut. Tony and Price stared down the hall.

“Hi, guys, it’s just me. I’m headed
downstairs to the shower.” Robe-wrapped in royal blue, Melody Mason
disappeared down the knotty pine stairway. A scent of something
sweet and sour from the kitchen followed her.

“One weekend. She was only going to live in
the garage a single weekend.” Tony hauled out a nearly empty carton
of orange juice hiding behind the nonfat milk.

Price grabbed his arm and ushered him to the
bay window. “It’s only been eight days.”

Sea gulls circled the narrow strip of rocky
beach stretched beyond the lawn. A boy and dog chased the birds
with a stick, then ran next door.

Tony plopped down in a brown canvas
director’s chair, took a swig of juice, and untied his running
shoes. “When she said ‘garage apartment,’ I figured there would
surely be a bathroom out there. Day and night we never know when
she’ll pop in.”

“It is rather distracting.” Price stood
behind him and rubbed his neck and shoulders. “But she said she’s
moving in with Kim on Wednesday, whether or not this Amigo guy
leaves.”

“What time was that interview?”

As Tony quaffed the last of the juice, Price
stepped back into the kitchen and returned with a bright pink
notepad.

“Here’s what Liz gave me. Ten o’clock with
WBAC from Boston. The host is Shari LaPointe....”

“Do we know her?”

“You remember Shari... last April at the
booksellers convention? She wore the dress made of book
covers.”

Tony’s eyebrows raised. “Oh ... that
Shari.”

“The bleached blonde who said, ‘Oh,
Tony, I want you to know I purposely put the cover of
Shotgun Creek
close to my
heart.’”

He jumped up, shoes and socks hanging from
his fingertips. “I can’t believe she’s in radio.”

“I can’t believe I’m letting you do this
interview.”

“When did you say she’s going to call?”

“In twenty-five minutes.”

Tony poured Rattlesnake Blend coffee into a
blue enamel tin cup. “You want to listen in on the extension?”

“Nope, but thanks for the offer. I’ll be
tied up going through old newspapers. I read the strange book on
the Jessica Davenport paintings, about famous pieces of original
art hanging on the walls all around you. Of the dozen samples they
mentioned, ten are here and two at the museum.”

“Anything we can use?”

“You mean, besides the fact the great
prisoner escape of 1952 happened on Anderson Island instead of Fox
Island?”

“I still can’t believe that.”

“We made the mistake of going by the
newspaper account. The story broke during the night. Seattle papers
got word the standoff happened on Fox Island, so that’s the way it
was printed. The news services picked it up before the retraction
appeared.”

“But how did it get in that book we
read?”

“The author must have read only the Seattle
paper account. We happened onto a first printing that had the
error. They say all subsequent printings changed to Anderson
Island.”

“But that was one of the strong points of
coming to Fox Island,” Tony complained. “It provided us with an
angle, an entry, a little excitement. Now that whole scenario’s
gone.”

“We’ll find another hook. I get the feeling
there’s something here we haven’t discovered. There’s plenty of
potential.”

“I think I like writing fiction better than
nonfiction. Did I ever tell you that?”

“In the last ten days?”

Tony banged several cupboards and drawers.
“Where’s the foil?”

“Above the refrig.” Price pulled half a
bagel from the toaster and smeared it with strawberry preserves.
“Hey, I did find a place called Smuggler’s Cove, but no one really
knows why the name.”

“I could make something up.”

Price laughed brief but hearty. “I’m
sure you could. But please, don’t. When the world-famous novelist
Anthony Shadowbrook gets through with
Fox
Island,
the place will sound as intriguing as,
say,
Fall River Mills.
Every
summer it’s the same thing. We wonder if we’ll ever find enough
fascinating data for a book. Somehow we manage. ‘Man’s part is to
trust, and God’s part is to work.’”

“That’s exactly how that phrase can be
misused. We’ve got to do our work and trust God to do his
work.”

“You fell for that bait.”

“Are you going to flog me with that line all
summer?”

“Maybe.” She grinned. “Now, what are you
going to wear to the luncheon?”

“I decided on the green shirt with southwest
print. How do you think the silver Apache scarf will look with
it?”

“Stunning, I’m sure. Did anyone ever tell
you what excellent taste in clothes you have?”

“Never.” He kissed her forehead and turned
toward the door. “I think I have time for a shower before the radio
interview.”

“You better not. Melody’s downstairs.
Remember? Not enough water pressure for two showers at once.”

He threw up his hands. “Sort of like
bringing the girls along after all. Guess I’ll drag the laptop out
to the deck and clean up that section on the Indian occupation of
the Island.”

“Take the remote phone. You can do the
interview out there. Only...”

“Only what?”

“Watch out for dive-bombing sea gulls.”

Barefoot and still wearing black jogging
shorts and black t-shirt that read “Cheyenne Frontier Days,” Tony
studied the strip of McNeill Island appearing out of the distant
fog across Carr Inlet. He couldn’t believe they didn’t escape over
there. He could see it now: armed and desperate men fighting the
currents, breaking into a small cabin dripping wet ... in the dark
of night. Terrified, pajama- clad children clutching their mother’s
gown as a frightened father gropes for his now-broken glasses so he
might see his attackers and face a violent challenge to protect his
children and defend his wife’s honor.

Why didn’t that happen on Fox Island?

He could write a chapter like that in four
hours. Now, a week’s worth of research and writing would replace
it. He needed to be reminded why he was writing this book. That is,
besides spending time alone for the summer with the most beautiful
woman in the world. Maybe that was a good enough reason.

“Isn’t it great out here?” Melody suddenly
stood beside him, wrapped in royal blue and topped with white head
turban.

“Summer’s a great time. How’s the rest of
the year?”

“Foggier. Colder. But each season has its
beauty. Say, did you get a chance to read my story yet?”

“The one about the hot dog stand?”

“Yeah.”

“Eh... I think Price is reading it now.
Listen, Melody, I don’t want to sound rude, but I’m doing a radio
interview in just a minute. So, I’ll need a moment to collect my
thoughts.”

“Oh, wow! What station is it? Maybe I could
tune in.”

“I don’t think so. It’s WBAC in Boston.”

“That is so cool. Isn’t it great being a
writer? I can’t think of anything I’d rather do. Tell Dr. S. I’ll
be ready to go in about forty minutes.”

“Oh? This morning?”

“I’m giving her a Davenport tour of the
Island ... all the places connected with my family.”

“You’re not going to interview your
grandmother today, are you? I wanted to sit in on the first public
visit with Jessica Davenport in fifty years.”

Melody rubbed her hands together, then tried
to wind the turban tighter around her head. Several dark locks of
hair sprawled from the top and she nervously tried to stuff them
back in. “Actually... I know I told you about getting an interview.
But Grandma Jessie just hasn’t been doing too well. Old age and
crankiness and such. I’m not sure she’s up to the interview.”

Tony shrugged. “I understand. We do have all
summer.”

“Yeah, well...” Melody stuck one
crimson-nailed foot out of her navy slippers and reached down to
scratch a toe. She peeked back at Tony, lips pinched tight together
before she said, “I told Grandma Jessie about you guys wanting to
talk to her, and she sort of, you know, blew up. She started
yelling and screaming and stuff.”

Tony’s eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry it
disturbed her so much.”

“It’s okay. Really. She has her good and bad
days. I’ll wait for a better one. When she’s okay, she remembers
the old days real good. Isn’t that weird? She can’t remember what
happened yesterday, but she can describe every moment of June
2,1942.”

“What happened on June 2,1942?”

The telephone rang. Melody spun around and
ran down the stairs. “I’ll tell you later, Mr. S. Have a good
interview.”

“Hi, Daddy... it’s me.”

“Kath? What’s up, sweetheart? I’ve got a
radio interview any minute now.... “

“I’ll make it quick. Did Josh call you last
night?”

“No. Was he supposed to?”

“Well, he said he would, but I knew he
wouldn’t. He promised to call from the hospital.”

“Good grief. What happened?”

“Some props gave way or something out at
Rawhide, and he broke his arm. Only a slight fracture, that’s all.
He’s okay, and their insurance covers the whole thing. I thought
you’d want to know. Talk to you later... have a good
interview.”

“Kath... wait....”

He gaped at the buzzing instrument.

The sliding glass door rolled open. “Is your
interview over?” Price stood there, brushing her hair, which looked
dark brunette in the shadows.

“They haven’t called yet. That was Kath.
Josh had an accident at Rawhide last night and busted his arm.”

“I knew it. I hate when I’m right about
impending disaster. Where is he? I’ll call him.”

“Kath said it was minor. Could we wait until
after the radio interview?”

“We need two phone lines.”

“You want the phone? Go ahead and use it.
Listen, babe, I couldn’t care less about this interview. Who wants
to talk to some blonde in a cardboard dress?”

Price grabbed her purse off the kitchen
counter. “I need to buy bread and juice at the market. I’ll call
Josh from the pay phone.”

“Melody said her grandmother wasn’t up to an
interview. I guess she even got hostile about it.”

“Oh, brother. We aren’t going to get a
Jessica Davenport scoop?”

“Not today. Melody figures sometime in the
next few weeks it will work out. Her grandmother sort of bounces in
and out of reality.”

“Don’t we all?” Price dug in her purse and
pulled out her car keys.

The phone rang again from the deck
railing.

“That will be WBAC,” Tony said.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Tell Josh I’ll talk to him later. Find out
what doctor he went to. Maybe we can find out what really
happened.”

“Answer your phone. Your public is waiting.”
Price blew him a kiss.

“Hello, Tony Shadowbrook here.”

A male voice on the other end startled him.
“Tony! Man, am I glad I finally caught you.”

“Are you with WBAC in Boston?”

“No, I’m your stepping-stone to incredible
fame.”

“If you’re selling something, we’re
definitely not interested. I either already have it, or don’t want
it. I’m really busy.”

“Wait, this is Terry Davidian.”

“Who?”

“Terry Davidian of Terrance Davidian and
Associates. I talked to your son and daughter last week.”

“Son and daughter?”

“I was at your house in Scottsdale. I guess
I just missed you. Kathy and Kit, if I remember.”

“Daughters. They’re both girls.”

“Oh, my, well, one was, eh, one was under
the car. There was grease and...”

“No problem. Look, Davidson, I need...”

“Davidian. Terry Davidian. Formerly with
Michael Ovitz.”

“Davidian, I’m scheduled for a radio
interview right now. I’ll have to call you back.”

“I’m on the road, so let me call you. I’m
just north of Portland... driving up 1-5... how about us doing
lunch on Fox Island? You name the restaurant and I’ll meet you
there.”

“No restaurants on this Island, Davidian.
Besides, I have a previous commitment. Maybe you ought to talk to
my publicist. Her name is Liz....”

“No, no, no! Tony, my main man, I didn’t
drive over twelve hundred miles to talk to a publicist. This is
big, real big. I’ll check back with you later. Save me some time in
your afternoon schedule.”

“Yeah, right.”

Tony pecked at his laptop computer on
top the redwood table, the cordless phone on the bench beside him.
He flipped through the pages of a locally published book
entitled
How the U.S. Government Covered
Up a Japanese Submarine Invasion of Fox Island,
written by a man named Harvey Peterson, who claimed the
credentials of “Supreme Commander of the Fox Island Chain Saw
Militia.” As far as Tony could determine, they had a membership of
one.

The guy ought to be writing headlines for
tabloid rag sheets. Who read this boring stuff? Surely no one
believed it. But he probably sold more copies than Tony’s latest
novel. Why did writing with integrity never sell as well as
garbage? They kept telling Tony if he’d write his stories to be
more violent, sexy, and vulgar he’d sell more copies. But his goal
was to write the last, decent bestseller that could be read aloud
to a sixth grade class without shame. Maybe after the River Breaks
series, he’d do a historical saga to end all sagas.

Minutes later he stared across the waters of
Carr Inlet. He could faintly hear water sloshing and bubbling
against the driftwood and beach. An acrid vegetable smell stung
him, like stewed chard, pot herbs, and rancid sea plants.

“Radio! Where is that interview?” He punched
familiar numbers into the phone. “Liz? Tony here.”