Guess What We Woke Up To...

That's right, more snow.  A couple inches of the stuff, at least, and this was wet, heavy snow.  The snowplow rolled up what looked like snowman parts that it left across the bottom of the driveway.  I was never so glad that I have a big 10 horsepower snowblower as when I faced that knee-high rank of snow boulders.  It was pretty when I woke up, though.  Each little twig and branch of the trees had its own coating of white... which meant the tree dropped snow on me while I was clearing the driveway.  Good thing I wore a hat.


I spent part of the afternoon working on writing up a pitch to deliver to the agent I have an appointment with at the writing conference in March.  It's not so easy to condense an 80k word manuscript into something you can describe in about 100 words in about 3 minutes.  I dug out the comments from the professor that critiqued the first ten pages and, in so doing, ended up cleaning off my desk.  I'd much rather write than clean but I found myself eagerly prospecting the pile, 95% of which I tossed into the recycling bin, instead of writing.  Can you say "procrastinate"?  I think every writer I know finds themselves surfing the web or checking emails or cleaning the bathroom when what they're really supposed to be doing with that time is writing.  I don't know why, I love writing.  Even more, I love having written, it's the writing part that's hard.  Words rarely behave the way you want them to.  And still we persist.



The other part of the afternoon was spent counting out pretzel twists into 2-point packages so they're handy when I need a salty, crunchy snack.  I did M&Ms too but didn't take their picture.  Did you know that 16 M&Ms is just 2 points?  Eighteen pretzels or sixteen M&Ms, satisfying.



Then I cast on another preemie hat.  I love the shades of purple with the thin stripe of sage-y green at the brim.




25 January--Barbara Malcolm, Three Cheers for Murder. 

“Did you move her?  Try to revive her?”

“No, I didn’t.  About 10 years ago I found my Dad dead in his cottage up North and tried to do CPR but couldn’t save him.  I guess I didn’t have any faith in my ability to save Tiffy either.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Mr. Davis.  CPR is effective only about 5% of the time.  Anyway, you called 911.  Then what?”

Dirk Davis suddenly stood, hands on hips. 

“Then what?  I stood there looking at my wife and wondering how she could be dead.”  He folded his arms across his chest and stepped to the smudged window overlooking the squad room, his back to Archibald. 

“It seemed to take forever for the police to get there.  I suppose it was only a few minutes.  When they got there, along with the Rescue Squad, they herded me out of the room.  They asked where the light switches were, had I checked the place for an intruder.  I hadn’t checked anything.  I just wanted to get help for Tiffy as quickly as possible.  The Rescue people called one of the officers over when they found the little cut on the back of Tiffy’s neck.  That gave the police a reason to accuse me of murdering my wife.” 

He whirled to face the detective, arms flying in his anger, “Me!  Murder that sweet, beautiful woman?  The one I love more than anything.  She stood by me when I was injured and couldn’t play anymore.  She endured that year when I thought I was good for nothing.  She encouraged me and pushed me to try broadcasting.  And when it looked like I might be okay at it, she was the one always cheering for me.  Telling me I’d be on Monday Night Football next.” 

He stopped talking.  Chest heaving with emotion, he looked down at Detective Archibald who hadn’t moved during his outburst.   “Do you love someone?  Can you imagine how you’d feel if someone accused you of killing that person?  Do you have any idea how insane that idea is?  That I would do something like that to her?  I love her.” 

Gulping to catch his breath, Dirk tried for a more measured approach.  “You have to understand.  Everyone has always thought I was a big, dumb jock.  But Tiffy always knew I was more than that.  She might have been a silly, immature girl when we got married 11 years ago but she’d turned into a real grown-up; a good businesswoman who was just beginning to earn a reputation for her design skills; a fair, well-liked employer; and she loved me, too.  I know she did.  Whoever started that rumor that she was meeting a lover doesn’t really know my girl.  Who could be so mean to start a rumor like that?  Where did you hear that?”

“We’re not at liberty to say, Mr. Davis.  You know that.  Go on.  Then what happened?"

Dirk drew another deep breath, preparing to plunge back into the black memories of that night.  “As soon as they’d decided that I’d killed Tiffy they went from being concerned about me to pushing me around a little.  Trying to goad me into confessing, I guess.  They escorted me outside the boutique where I guess they thought they would be more likely to keep me off guard, firing questions left and right, accusing me over and over of having killed her.  Asking about a lover.  Had we had a big fight?  I kept trying to tell them that I’d been at the TV station until almost 10 then had fallen asleep at home until I went there and found her.  They just kept pressing and I guess I got a little angry.  They finally put me in the squad car and bought me down here where I talked to you that night.”

“Do you remember seeing anyone around the store when you got there?  Anyone you recognized standing around while you were talking to the officers?”

“No.  No one.  I, ah, wait.  I did see someone alongside the building.  You know, toward the back where the trash cans are.  It was that guy, what’s his name?  Ed, no, Edward something.  You see him all over town.  He looks like a homeless guy, but his shoes are always shined.  I’m sure you’ve seen him.”

            Archibald closed his eyes and let his head sag into his hand.  “You mean, Kenneth Edwards?  About mid-50's, grey hair and eyes, unmatched clothes and an overcoat all the time?  He goes around town collecting cans for the cash.”  Archibald didn’t want to hear this.  When he was a young cop walking a beat, Kenneth Edwards was head of internal security at Dahlcom Communications.  Edwards was a big help to him, introducing him to the movers and shakers around town, clueing him into how things worked in the world of corporate security.  It had hurt him to watch Edwards’ rapid decline and eventual slide into alcoholism and homelessness.  Archibald had unobtrusively kept his eye on him.  Tried to make sure he didn’t slide too far.  


I dearly hope that I don't wake up to more snow tomorrow.  That'd be the fourth day in a row that I'd be out there with the snowblower.  At least it isn't freezing cold, it's just regular cold, right around 32 degrees, bearable.
--Barbara