Murder, She Wrote

Missing, Assumed Dead

Prejudice, murder, insanity, suicide: Every small town has its secrets.

Amazon Link for free ebook.

The Story According to Kam, the Main Character

I'm Kam McBride and my story is "Missing, Assumed Dead," free on Amazon.

I hardly have time for this type of appearance. After all, I'm not a public speaker (even in the virtual sense), although I can make a presentation on a new software product with the best of them.

Personal life? HA! I have none. It's either work or helping out my mom, who's now in a wheelchair from long-term MS. She helps me too. What would I do without her love, wisdom, and chocolate chip cookies.

Because I love my mom, I set myself up for this incredibly stupid trip to eastern Oregon. Some old guy named Salvadore Vasco disappeared seven years ago, so the court is declaring him missing, and assumed dead. Guess what? I'm his last living relative, so (lucky me), I get to be the executor of his estate.

The word 'estate' sounds like some major goodies to inherit, right? No such luck. The old man, bless him, was churchmouse poor. I should have just let the court go ahead with the probate without me. That's where my mom comes in. She's a geneology nut, er, enthusiast (that how I found out Salvadore was my long-lost whatever). Since she wanted any photos or family records left behind, she made me go to gawdforsaken eastern Oregon...in the MIDDLE OF THE SUMMER. What was she thinking?

First thing I do is get lost. I can't find this itty bitty town. So, I'm standing in the middle of this desert--so much for green Oregon--and haven't a clue. But luck is running a little bit my way when Deputy Mitch Caldwell shows up in his big SUV. Hmm. Not so bad after all.

That was my only lucky break, though. Soon enough I've got some really weird people coming after me, and I don't even know why. Not until I do some digging around. Then all hell breaks loose. 

I thought Oregon was going to be boring.

Here's an excerpt from the book when I'm in deep doodoo, which is most of the time.

* * * 

Kam gasped and jumped down the embankment toward the creek, stumbling through the underbrush. She heard the pickup tires screech and glanced back. Scruffy had gotten out and headed down the slope behind her. She moved faster, gripping her hair spray. A strap broke on her sandal, and she kicked it off. Ignoring the brambles poking into her legs through her jeans, she moved as fast as she could, the terrain preventing her from flat out running.

She heard the crashing of bushes behind her and put on more steam. She knew the pickup would have reached her car by now, but she’d be coming up on the passenger door, slightly downhill from the driver’s side. She switched the hair spray to her left hand and pawed into her purse for the keys. Finding them, she dropped the bag on the ground to free her hands and kept moving.

When she reached the Chrysler, the driver had already skidded down the embankment and was standing on the driver’s side. Thin compared to the other man, but his arms were solid muscle under the tats. She rushed to the passenger side, jerked open the heavy door, dived in, slammed the door and hit the lock button on the key fob.

The driver pounded the window with his fist. The scruffy one had caught up and pulled on the passenger side door handle. Kam hit the panic button on the fob. The deep and seriously loud Chrysler horn went off with honking bursts. Both men jumped back from the car.

The driver yelled, “I’ll fetch the rifle.” He scrambled to climb up the embankment.

Kam’s heart almost stopped. Even the shatterproof windows wouldn’t stand up against a hunting rifle. She looked around the car wildly, her breath coming in sharp rasps, and then launched herself over the console and into the rear. Sweat ran from her armpits, soaking her blouse. She ran her shaking hands across the top of the seat back hunting for the latch. She hoped the Chrysler had fold down back seats. If she could just reach the tire iron, she’d have a weapon. If this stupid car even had one that is.

She felt the latch pin, grasped it and pulled it up. It clicked. She grasped the seat back in both hands and pulled it down. On her belly, she crawled halfway into the trunk searching for the spare tire well. 

A Return to the Hate of the Past

MISSING, ASSUMED DEAD

Prejudice, murder, insanity, suicide: Every small town has its secrets.
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I posted this a couple of years back, but with the resurgence of the right-wing, neo-Nazi, racist encouraged by the appointed President, I thought it was worth another run.

Recent unfortunate events in Oregon (the self-named "militia" who are essentially domestic terrorists) led me to thinking about the villains of this mystery/thriller. I made the terrorist group in the book white power proselytizers. The out-of-state agitators holing up in a Federal building on Federal land no doubt carry the same prejudices around in their pointy heads. For your consideration, I submit to you the ignorant racist elements of civilized society who say "constitution" as if they had a clue what was in that document. I couldn't pass up the opportunity to introduce a very similar bunch of "bundies."

FEAR AND POWER

I didn't want to let the Judge rant on about his prejudices, so I'm covering for him. This is one mean, nasty old man. But one soft spot in his heart does him in.

In "Missing, Assumed Dead," a self-proclaimed 'judge' runs a small Justice Court (really only traffic court) in a tiny town in Southeast Oregon. He has appointed his nephew, George Leiper, de facto town police chief. Of  course, there is no police department, but George loves to wear the uniform and enjoy the comforts of his own office in the City Hall.

Nobody cares to oppose the Judge as long as he keeps his connection to the White Power groups away from Rosewood.

But that's not always the case. He brings the darkness of the Aryan Brotherhood right to the town's front door when he forces his daughter, Miranda, to marry one of the brotherhood, Cole Bristow. Mostly, the Judge want to get his daughter away from a Basque shepherd, Salvadore. When Salvadore disappears mysteriously, the town populace whispers behind closed doors, but don't dare cross the Judge with his connections to the White Power group.

Soon after bearing her daughter, Mirabel, Miranda commits suicide rather than remain married to Cole. The whole town worries, but fear keeps the secrets hidden.

The judge becomes the guardian of his granddaughter, but keeps her away from the rest of the town. Even her uncle admits that she's not right in the head. Something happened to her around the time Salvadore disappeared. What happened to Salvadore, and why is Mirabel insane? Is the Basque shepherd her father rather than Cole, Miranda's husband?

Here's an excerpt from the book that shows you a little about Judge Leiper and how the terrorist groups get their ideas of right and wrong.

* * *

George hadn’t wanted to drive the judge to the meeting. He couldn’t get all fired up about hating kikes, niggers, and spics like those other men. Sure, he wished anybody who wasn’t white would go back where they come from but didn’t feel like doing anything about it. The men, and some women, wore swastika armbands, and the big picture of Hitler gave George the willies. Just ’cause you wanted America to be a good, all-white Christian nation didn’t mean you had to hate like that bastard. He killed a lot of white boys, too.

The ol’ man climbed up on the platform at the end of the meeting room with Hitler peering over his shoulder. George sat in the back just wishing it were over.

His uncle was in fine form. He hollered and pounded the lecture table like an old-time preacher in a tent revival. George’s mind drifted back to when he was a boy and his pa took him to the traveling meetings. George’s ma, the judge’s sister, died from the cancer when he was a boy. All the prayer vigils didn’t help none. The judge was a rich man and showed an interest in his nephew. When George’s pa died, the judge took him in. He owed the judge a lot, and the judge never let him forget it.

George’s attention returned to the lecture. The judge was talking about the Spanish War, the one where Hitler bombed the Basques. He got them all worked up. Seemed like those fellas didn’t know about it, and it gave them a good excuse to be pissed off at somebody close by. Everybody stood up and clapped up a storm. George rose along with them, so’s nobody would notice him.

After the ending prayer, the judge led a group to the local watering hole to discuss the situation some more. It was only at the tavern that George realized the judge was talking about Salvadore Vasco. He noticed Cole Bristow standing next to the judge. George wondered how the judge felt about his son-in-law when he run out on Mirabel and left the judge to raise her. They acted friendly, though, so George figured they’d mended any broken fences.

Cole walked over to George and threw a heavy arm around his shoulders. “How’s it hangin’, cousin?”

George edged away but forced a grin and shook Cole’s hand. “Hangin’ fine. How ’bout you?”

“Good, good.” Cole leaned forward and tapped the lip of his beer bottle on George’s chest. “Say, George, I didn’t want to ask the judge, but how’s that little girl.”

“Mirabel?”

“Yeah, yeah. I wanted to know if she’s come out dark or light.”

George shook his head, confused by what Cole was getting at. Then a light bulb lit, and he realized Cole wanted to know if Mirabel was his daughter. “She’s fair-skinned, Cole. Looks like her mom.”

Cole chuckled deep in his throat and tapped his beer on George’s chest again. George took a step back and glanced down at the beer spot Cole left behind. “Miranda was a hot number, all right.”

George nodded but thought Cole talking about his dead wife like that was, well, it was disrespectful. Before Cole could tap him again, George made his way to the judge’s side. “Shouldn’t we go home soon? It’s a long drive.”

“In a minute, George. Find yourself another beer.”

George looked at the group of men standing around the judge, all practically foaming at the mouth talking about going out and ‘taking care’ of Vasco. The judge grinned and clapped them on the back, sayin’ he’d be grateful to whoever helped him out in sendin’ a message to the Basques around Jordan Valley. No good white folks wanted them around, and they’d best move along.

When they drove back to Rosewood, the judge was laughing and happy. “It’s about time something was done about Vasco. Teach the Basques to keep their dirty paws off white women.”

“Yessir.” George agreed some, but not with what the judge was saying. Salvadore and Miranda hadn’t been together for years, so George couldn’t see how it mattered anymore.

Roll on Columbia

Did you know that Oregon's official state song was written by Woody Guthrie? Pretty classy, eh? Here are a few lines to get you revved up about exactly why Oregonians love their state song:

Roll on, Columbia, roll on.
Roll on, Columbia, roll on.
Your power is turning our darkness to dawn,
Roll on, Columbia, roll on.

Other great rivers add power to you,
Yakima, Snake and the Klickitat, too,
Sandy Willamette and Hood River, too;
Roll on, Columbia, roll on.

* http://www.woodyguthrie.org/Lyrics/Roll_On_Columbia.htm

We don't burn coal to make power. We use our amazing waterways to produce hydroelectric power. My home city's electric company (EWEB, a publicly owned entity) also offers wind power as an option. Costs a few cents more, but wind is a good thing, eh?

In honor of Oregon's commitment to clean energy and just being an all-round cool place to live (yes, I was born here), I've got a couple of Oregon-based books to give you a tour of a some of those really cool places, or really hot if it's summer.

Missing, Assumed Dead - Adult Mystery

Set in the eastern high desert of Oregon (yes, Oregon has a lot of desert), this mystery is about a young woman dragged into a probate hearing of a distant relative she didn't even know she had. She begins to get hints that not everything is as it seems when people start trying to kill her. But she's got moxie, Kam does. She doesn't let the threats stop her from finding the truth behind her distant relative's disappearance.

When Kameron McBride receives notice she's the only living relative of a missing man she's never even heard of, the last thing she wants to do is head to some half-baked Oregon town to settle his affairs. Her suspicions rise when the probate Judge isn't really a judge and tries too hard to buy the dead man's worthless property. Kam probes deeper into the town's secrets and finds almost no one she can trust. She must find out what really happened to her dead relative before someone in this backward little town sends her to join him.

And she thought Oregon was going to be boring. 

Eagle Quest - MG/YA Adventure

Set in the Klamath Wildlife preserves in Southern Oregon, this book is about the Bald Eagle flyout area in Bear Valley. Yes, we have Bald Eagles like they were pigeons in the park around Oregon. And we're danged proud of our big birds. The cover shot was taken by Coralie, a professional wildlife photographer and my long-time friend. See her work on her website at http://mrsroadrunner.com/ 

Fiona, Hap, Billy, and Mitch make an odd set of friends, as different from the usual high school crowd as they are from each other. Mitch, the oldest of the four, is a half-breed Native American, adopted by white parents. Troubled that he doesn't know his tribe, he avidly studies Native American history and lore. 

Learning the nearby Bear Valley Wildlife Refuge is a bald eagle nesting site, he wants to add an eagle feather to his medicine bag and explore the refuge as a site for his Vision Quest, a Native American rite of passage. He and his three friends get far more than an overnight campout as they encounter a black bear, an old man living in the refuge, and a pair of eagle poachers. Bringing the poachers to justice, they test their courage and gain confidence in themselves and each other.

Review - Sylvia Beach Hotel

Sylvia Beach Hotel - A Place for Writers

Okay, so one of my first reviews will be a hotel and not a book. So, sue me. I became aware of the Sylvia Beach Hotel in Newport, Oregon through the Willamette Writers' newsletter. It sounded cool. I'm close to Newport (an hour or so from Eugene), so I went to the website and started salivating.

From the Sylvia Hotel website:

This is truly a hotel for book lovers. There are no t.v.'s, no radios, no phones (although 2 public phones are available.) It is a quiet place on most days. Except for the glorious storms. Then the wind howls, the building shakes, and the rain pounds down. Some days it's warm and sunny and the sky is bright blue. Some days there's morning fog. Some days the wind makes you stay inside and read! Some days are rainbow days, the weather just can't decide. The ocean is always present. (The hotel is on a 45 foot bluff right above the surf.) You move into the rhythm of the sea. Perhaps that's why time seems to slow way down, almost to a standstill.

Paradise.

The rooms go by the names of various novelists and poets. Ooo! The Mark Twain Room. My favorite writer. Want to stay in Edgar Allan Poe, complete with pendulum swinging over the bed? Like Agatha Christie, Hemingway, Tennessee Williams, Melville? There's a room for you here.

Breakfast is included in the room price and dinner is family style, where the owner might be en table and challenge everyone to a game of Two Truths, One Lie.

You'll like the website, too. No funky photos making the rooms look twice their size. Every room is illustrated with tasteful line drawings.

Forget I said this. This isn't anyplace you'd want to go. Of course, I say that because I'd like to save it for myself. Don't live in Oregon? Eat your heart out.