Fox Island Read online

  “My western novels are creative. Poetry is creative. Cowboy music is creative. In a nonfiction historical series you want consistency … continuity … a familiar, homey pattern.”

  “But I don’t think it will be a homey book with a history of escaped convicts, gangland murders plotted from beachfront mansions, Japanese submarine invasions, the Chain Saw Militia … not to mention the possibility of an interview with Jessica Davenport Reynolds, the first she’s allowed in fifty-five years. I’m really hyped about this book. We’ve got to convey that excitement to the readers.”

  “You’re right about one thing. We have more background on this place ahead of time than any of the other books in this series.”

  Price gazed out the window at a brilliant sun-flocked drift of clouds as wing shadows darted across them. “So, if we follow our format, I presume we’ll open with the United States Exploring Expedition of 1841 and Lieutenant Charles Wilkes naming the Island after the expedition’s assistant surgeon, Lieutenant John L. Fox?”

  “Yeah, we could do a lot with that. Lots of drama. Twelve bronzed and sea-tough men nobly paddling across the strong and dangerous currents of the Tacoma Narrows against all odds to land on a deserted, heavily forested island. They struggled against severe elements and violent dissension among the tattered band of renegade sailors. Only the unflagging bravery and audacious stubbornness of one man held the whole party together.”

  “But we do intend to stick close to the historical truth, don’t we? Tony, it’s supposed to be a travelogue, not an adventure novel.”

  “It is not a travelogue. We are not writing a series of travelogues. We’re writing a history of some of the most fascinating out-of-the-way places in the great American West.” Why does she keep saying that? Anthony Shadowbrook does not write travelogues.

  Price shifted the arms and back of her seat and tried to relax. “You’ve been reading the cover copy too long. I think we ought to consider opening with the Indian legend of the Clay Babies.”

  “And I think we can wait until we’re settled in before we make any such decisions. You know the trouble with writing? You never get a vacation. Even when you’re on vacation, you constantly work through scenes, stories, characters, plots, ideas. Come on, babe, for the first time in over twenty-six years we have a whole summer to ourselves. We can write that book tomorrow.”

  Price felt the tension ease from her neck and shoulders. She pushed her glasses to the top of her head. “We’ve waited a long time for this, haven’t we?”

  “Remember when we first got married? We were going to raise the kids, and then travel and write.”

  “That was forty-six books ago. You’ve been busy, Mr. Anthony Baldwin Shadowbrook.”

  “Two doctorates, a professorship, and a dozen books with your name on them… you’ve been busy, too, Dr. Priscilla Carey Shadowbrook.”

  “A married son still in graduate school, another son who’s trying to scare his parents to death as a stuntman, and twin daughters who get along about as well as a mongoose and a snake… we’ve both been real busy, babe.” She slipped her fingers into his.

  “Are you ready for a quiet summer?”

  She nodded. “I believe we deserve it… and Melody said Fox Island is delightful in the summer.”

  “Melody?”

  “Melody Mason, my former student.”

  “The Melody whose aunt is Jessica Davenport, right?”

  “No, it’s her grandmother, Jessica Davenport Reynolds.”

  “I read somewhere that she’s called ‘the Garbo of the Northwest.’”

  “Sounds like a real adventure, doesn’t it? Did you know she wants to be a writer?”

  “The grandmother?”

  “No… Melody. I told you all this before. Weren’t you listening?”

  “I was probably lost somewhere along Shotgun Creek.” Tony leaned back and closed his eyes.

  “You really get absorbed in your own stories. Do you suppose all writers are that way?”

  “All except Stephen King, I suppose. When I was young I used to wonder what it was like to be a writer. Nowadays, I keep wondering what it would be like not to be a writer.”

  “You’d hate it… trust me.”

  “Is this Mason girl going to meet us at the airport?”

  “Yes, she’ll drive us to the Island.”

  “I don’t think we’ve ever rented a place that was furnished with a car. What will we be driving all summer, an old Oldsmobile?”

  Price reached up and turned off the lights above their seats. “What difference does it make? The Island is only five miles long and one and a half miles wide. We could do the whole thing with bicycles.”

  “It’s an old white Oldsmobile, isn’t it?”

  “I’m not sure of the color.”

  “How old is this grandmother Davenport?”

  “Reynolds. She’s in her seventies.”

  “It’s white.”

  “Dr. Shadowbrook! It’s me… Melody Mason. I can tell from your face I look different. And you must be Anthony.” A long, thick switch of black hair and huge loop earrings swinging, she clutched his hand with both of hers. “Wow, this is something I’ve dreamt about meeting Anthony Shadowbrook face-to-face. And all this time, I thought of you as an old man. Boy, was I wrong. You look like those rugged rodeo cowboys on ESPN. Before I read your books I didn’t know a tapadera from a Winchester. Now I’m into the whole scene.”

  Price tugged Tony away from her grip and steered through the terminal toward the baggage claim department. Melody scooted ahead of them. She didn’t look at all different than Price recalled. The same dark, straight hair, bushy eyebrows that touched when she smiled, nervous chatter, brown eyes begging for approval.

  Walking backward, Melody kept talking. “I’m a writer, too. Not that I have any books published yet … you know, the struggling years? That’s me. They’ve been the struggling years ever since I graduated from ASU.”

  “Eh… when was that?” Tony managed to ask.

  “Class of ’92, with a degree in interpretative writing.”

  “Interpretative writing?” Tony glanced at Price.

  “An experimental major in the communications department, as I remember. Melody, is everything ready for us at your grandmother’s house?”

  “Oh yes, you’ll love it, really. It’s right on the water overlooking Carr Inlet. On a clear day you can stand at the end of the dock and see the Olympic Mountains. And the sunsets on the Sound are legendary. Talk about secluded. Well, you know the reputation my grandmother has.”

  Price shifted the straps of her patchwork leather purse to the other shoulder and slowed the pace. She already regretted wearing heels. “We really appreciate being able to rent the house. Everything we’ve read about Fox Island mentions the Davenport house. Your grandmother and her sister made lots of news in the thirties and forties. You said your grandmother’s in a care facility. Has the house been vacant long?”

  “Oh no. I’ve been living there several years. But like I told you in my letter, I thought if I could talk the Shadowbrooks into setting their next Hidden West book on Fox Island, then they should stay in Grandma Jessie’s place. It’s part of the Island’s history too. Our family was among the early settlers.”

  “That’s very generous of you,” Tony said in his “I don’t like the sounds of this” voice. “Where will you be living this summer?”

  Price stopped to catch her breath at the top of the stairs. “With her mother in Gig Harbor. How’s she doing? Severe depression, wasn’t it?”

  Melody pulled sunglasses and mints out of her purse. “Thanks for asking. I think Mom’s feeling pretty good this summer. But, there’s been a little change in plans.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, I’m not exactly staying with Mom. You see, I moved my stuff over there three days ago so I could bring in some professional cleaners and really have Grandma’s place first rate for you. And Mom and I got in this sort of argument, and I decided … we d
ecided… actually, she told me I’d better find other arrangements.”

  “If we’re causing you any problems, we can go to a realtor and find something else,” Tony plugged in.

  “That might be difficult at this late date,” Price mumbled. Was the whole housing thing falling apart? They really didn’t need any complications now. Please, Lord, just a smooth, peaceful summer.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” Melody said. “I have it all planned out. See, I’m going to spend the summer with my friend, Kim. She’s an artist, a really good one. Not as good as Grandma, of course, but she has this thing about angels. Even her seascapes have them.”

  “Oh… that’s nice,” Price said.

  “A struggling artist, if you know what I mean. Anyway, she lives in a cabin out on Gibson Point.”

  “Well, I’m glad it all worked out for you.” Tony parked his briefcase next to the baggage claim carousel.

  “Actually, it hasn’t quite worked out. Kim has this sort of boyfriend living with her. He’s a jerk. Really. That’s what even Kim says. And she’s going to kick Amigo out this weekend.”

  Tony raised his eyebrows. “Amigo?”

  “That’s the guy’s name.”

  “Then, when he’s gone, you’ll stay with her?” Price questioned.

  “Yep. It’ll be cool. I’ll write in the den and she’ll paint on the deck. We’ve got it all planned out. She’ll do all the cooking and laundry and I’ll do the rest. Did I tell you I’m working on a book of short stories?”

  Tony examined the bags revolving on the carousel. A whiny voice on the loud speaker droned flight information about a flight to Anchorage. “Eh… no, I don’t think you mentioned it.”

  “Well…” Melody rocked back and forth on her black Velcro strapped sandals. “See, I call it Endangered Species, but it’s not about animals. It’s about people. People whose occupations are being phased out by the unrelenting technological progress of the late twentieth century. My first piece is called The Last Hot Dog Stand in America. Isn’t that title great? It came to me in a dream one night.”

  Price scooted the two briefcases to the side as Tony fished out a large blue suitcase from the carousel. “So, you’re not staying with your mom, or Kim, for a few days. Where does that leave you?”

  “Well, here’s what I thought… and you two feel perfectly free to squelch the idea…. Grandma has this small apartment above her garage. Mainly just storage, but it’s really quite comfortable. Has a little balcony and everything. So, if it would be all right, I’d like to stay there until Kim’s place opens up. It’ll just be for a few days. Now, I know you paid for the whole place for all summer… but I thought I could spend the weekend driving you all over the Island and introducing you to the people you’ll need to talk to. You know, sort of in exchange for bunking in the garage loft?”

  N-0. Absolutely not! Tony mouthed to Price behind Melody’s back. No, no, no. This was the summer he and Price got reacquainted. No emergency runs to the hospital for injured kids. No pizza wedged behind the couch cushions. No one busting into their bedroom early in the morning because they thought they heard them talking. Just the two of them.

  “What do you think, Dr. Shadowbrook?”

  “Well… I think…” Tony shook his head at Price. “Just for a few days… I suppose that would be… but we really must have privacy in order to complete this project. I think I explained all this in our correspondence.”

  “You got it. Believe me, you won’t even know I’m there.”

  Tony huddled the suitcases between them. “Melody, why don’t you get your car and we’ll wait out front. These are too heavy to carry to the parking garage.”

  “Oh, sure. Wow, you really have a lot of baggage. I’ve just, you know, never been around famous writers before.”

  “Do you have room?” Tony asked. “We could rent a vehicle.”

  “Oh no. We’ll make it. VWs hold a whole lot more than most people think.”

  Melody scurried out the front door of the terminal and disappeared in the confusion of cars, taxis, hotel vans and temporary Seattleites.

  “A Volkswagen?” Tony sighed. “This doesn’t look good. We can’t load this in a little car. And then she’s going to stay with us? It’s not fair. We had this all planned out. What will we do with a girl in our garage?”

  “She isn’t a girl. She’s twenty-five years old, in case your old eyes didn’t notice, an attractive young woman who spent entirely too long holding your hand.”

  “Whoa! I feel a shoot-out scene coming on. But I’m not the one who told her, ‘Oh, sure, stay at the house for the weekend.’”

  “What could I say? But she’ll be out of the garage by Monday, or we’ll make other arrangements.”

  “I don’t think it would hurt to start searching for an alternative immediately.” Tony pulled off his cowboy hat and ran his fingers through his dose-cropped sandy brown hair. He took a deep breath. “Then again, maybe we’re getting worried over nothing. Let’s get to the Island and set up camp. I’m anxious to get started on that book.”

  “Tony, they’re calling your name.”

  “Who?”

  “The public address system.”

  “Really? How can you hear that?”

  “Because I’m not nearly as old as you are.”

  “Three years, that’s all, kid. Where’s the house phone?”

  “One of those white ones over there. But who would call you here?”

  “Probably Miss Mason. She lost her way and can’t find her ’55 Bug.” Tony scooted across the polished tile terminal to a wall phone. “Tony Shadowbrook… is there a call for me?”

  “Are you the writer?”

  “Eh, yeah… who is this?”

  “Are you the one who wrote Lonesome Dove?”

  “No, that was Larry McMurtry.”

  “I know I’ve heard of you. What did you write?”

  “Who is this?”

  “One of the airport operators.”

  “Did I have a phone message?” Tony asked.

  “Yes, just a minute. Say, you wrote Talking God, didn’t you?”

  “That was Tony Hillerman. What about my call?”

  “Your daughter wants you to call home, Mr. Shadowbrook. Come on, now, what did you write?”

  “My latest novel is called Shotgun Creek.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Yeah… well… it’s pretty new.”

  “Mr. Shadowbrook, is it true you know Tom Selleck?”

  “No.”

  “Oh… well… good day.”

  With the scent of strong espresso drifting through the terminal, Tony retraced his steps, lizard cowboy boots pounding over the sounds of passing loafers, tennies, and hiking boots.

  “Sorry for the delay. I got waylaid by a fan… well, sort of a fan.”

  “What was the urgent message?”

  “One of the girls called.”

  Price slumped her shoulders. “I can’t believe they’ve already had a spat. I’ll bet it’s about that cow.”

  “No, it’s not. Well, maybe. Let’s scoot the bags to the pay phones. You’ll probably have to mediate.”

  The phone rang four times before he heard a familiar voice. “Hi, Pop, how was your flight?”

  “Fine. What’s the emergency?”

  “Wait, Kit wants to talk, too. She’s out in the garage.”

  “What is it, Tony?” Price prodded.

  “Kath went to get Kit.”

  “Hey, Pop, how’s the world famous writer?”

  “Kit, what’s going on?”

  “About an hour ago a man named Terrance Davidian came by the house to see you.”

  “I don’t know any Terrance Davidian.”

  “We know. Terrance Davidian used to work for Michael Ovitz.”

  “Who?”

  “Oh, Pop, you know, the Hollywood super-agent who’s now at Disney. Disney… as in Walt, as in Mickey Mouse, as in megabucks.”

  “Okay, so what?”
>
  “Well, get ready for this. Davidian said he thinks Shotgun Creek is one terrific western. He wants to take it to the studios.”

  “What?”

  “To make a movie out of Shotgun Creek! Can you believe it? And… there’s a chance of sequels for the rest of the River Breaks series. Daddy? Are you there?”

  “What studio did you say he’s from?”

  “I didn’t. I think he’s an agent.”

  “Well, then, he’s looking for his cut.”

  “Pop, this is serious. He’s got your address on Fox Island. I think he’s flying up to see you.”

  “Flying here? When?”

  “It sounded like today. Didn’t it, Kit?”

  “Yeah, but, don’t trust him too far, Pop.”

  “Oh, Kit, come on. He really, really likes your book, Daddy. He said you were the next Luke Grey or Zane Short or something.”

  “What’s the problem, Kit?” Tony asked.

  “Look, the guy drives up here in an old beat-up Datsun. Come on, even our paper boy can afford a better car than that.”

  “Who’s coming to Fox Island?” Price demanded.

  Tony waved her away. “Is that all, girls?”

  “Yes, aren’t you excited? I know Mom will be. This could be that big break you’ve always talked about needing.”

  “Speaking of big breaks,” Kit broke in, “I busted a bolt off the block. Do you have any Easyouts in your toolbox, Pop?”

  “No, but why don’t you buy me one?”

  “Okay. Bye, Pop.”

  “Hey, Daddy…”

  “Kath?”

  “Kit’s off the phone now. You’ll never guess what she’s got in the backyard.”

  “The calf, right?”

  “Yeah. How did you…?”

  “It’s okay, Kath. Thanks for telling us.”

  “Bye, Daddy.”

  “Talk to you later, sweetheart.”

  Melody Mason, all five feet one inch of her, beamed innocence and cheer beside a pouting Price. “Well, what are those two up to?” his wife asked.

  “Besides raising a calf in our backyard?”

  “I told you!”

  “Also, some alleged Hollywood agent stopped by to talk about a scheme to make Shotgun Creek into a movie.”

  “Really? Oh, wow, this is terrific,” Melody blurted out. “I’ve always thought Keanu Reeves would make an excellent Jake Houston. Can’t you see that? He’s a natural.”