A Quiet Day

All I did today was read a novel.  I took pictures of the zinnias but that's about it.



Oh, I tossed an odd loaf pan that Durwood had bought and never used, and an unused salt & pepper mill.  Didn't take pictures.

I started on the lace part of the Hawk's Wing shawl, knitted the first two rows, and on the second row I forgot how to purl a yarn over.  Gah!  How can I forget that?  Especially in the middle of a row when I'd been doing it for the first half of the row?  I swear I've lost my knitting mojo.

05 July--Barbara Malcolm, Tropical Obsession. 

His next stop was the police station where he sent a pair of officers out in the police launch to scrutinize the shore from the water to see if they could find where Jack had fallen from.  He assigned another officer to pace the boat from shore so that they could coordinate their work.  He fielded a few complaints about his using too many officers on one case.

 He turned to face the complainers.  “And exactly how long do you wager this island will enjoy its excellent reputation if word gets out that tourists are killed here.” 

He looked each of them in the eye and stared them down.  He knew he was right, they knew he was right, so they turned back to their cases and left Rooibos alone to coordinate his investigation. 

Rooibos hated the idea that a tourist, a visitor to his island and source of much needed revenue for that beloved island, had been killed, and worse yet, murdered.  As horrible as it is to say he would rather it had been a local.  The local life of the island was mostly lived underground so that the lifeblood of the island, the tourists and their dollars or euros or yen were unaware of petty things.  Not that the loss of a life was a petty thing, but people would not continue to come and spend money in resorts and dive operations, restaurants, food stores, and a host of other entertainments if they thought they might, just might be in danger.  A murder on an island this small would be as bad for publicity as a murder in a hotel.  Tourists, Rooibos thought, were like a flock of flamingos; one would be startled and start to run, and all the others would run too, not really knowing why they were running.  He smiled at the mental picture of a flock of honking pink birds running this way and that looking for all the world like a bunch of grannies getting upset after church.  He shook his head at his own fanciful thoughts and got back to work.

Checking the clock, he realized that it was nearing one o’clock in the afternoon.  He had missed lunch and supposed that Mister and Missus Clark (Cluck, Rooibos caught himself thinking of the chickens that lived next door to him.  A laugh shorted out his nose, but he got control of himself with an admonishment not to slip and call the American witnesses Mister and Missus Cluck.  He needed a vacation, he decided, as soon as this case was done.) were either napping after lunch or out at a dive site.  Where were they staying?  Ah, Happy Holiday Homes.  He could call Louise, the owner, and ask if they were in and have her give them a message to expect him around two o’clock in the afternoon.  He called and left his message, then he took a short walk over to Julio’s Snack on the corner downtown for a quick lunch and to stretch his legs.  He had a feeling he would be doing a lot of sitting interviewing people and chasing reports for the next few days.  He hoped it would not stretch into weeks, but he was afraid that it would if he did not get a break today. 

Not many fireworks tonight.  Hooray!  Last night it felt like they were shot off from my own yard.  I pulled out an old book of writing exercises and did the first one today.  I'm frustrated by my lack of writing success so decided to take another run at it from a different direction.  Fingers crossed.
--Barbara