Back On Track

I finally got tired of myself enough to shove myself back on track.  I buckled down and logged everything I put in my mouth today and dragged myself to the Y to walk on the treadmill for 20 minutes.  I know that's not very long but I've gotta restart somewhere.

A snowplow came by this morning to scrape up some street snow that was under a parked car when it came by the other day.  It very kindly rolled a bunch of solid balls bigger than a basketball and left them in my driveway.  Another snowman's worth of parts in the way.  I went out with the shovel and managed to move the biggest ones off to the side but they were too big to move far and too heavy to throw.  Thanks a heap, Mr. Snowplow Driver.

For supper I made Hoisin-glazed Turkey Mini Meatloaves.  I doubled the recipe then scooped the meat mixture into the cups of a big muffin tin so that I have six suppers.  I could slice one of my meatloaf balls and make an amazing sandwich too.  The mixture has fresh garlic and ginger, lots of scallions, bread crumbs, soy sauce, and eggs, oh, and lean ground turkey.  It's kinda goopy but it sure is tasty once it's baked.  I steamed some sugar snap peas to go with it but need more fresh veggies to cook.  I'll see what's on hand and see what I can cobble together so I'm not tempted by sweets at the grocery.  Or those Honey Mustard & Onion pretzel pieces.  Those things are addictive.  I'm a big pretzel fan.


After supper I cast on a cowl in yarn I bought in Indy in November.  It's a pretty gray and when you see it in bright light there are a bunch of other faint colors blended in.  This is a simple pattern that I feel is the next step up from the preemie hats.  I've got to get my knitting mojo back, this is getting ridiculous.  My plan is to keep knitting, dragging myself along, until it starts to feel easy again.

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

Reluctantly Archibald suggested, “Drinking back there, Ken?”

“No!  I’m not doing much drinking these days.  Trying to get my life back.  I been spending time at Ms. Allgood’s shelter working on getting a job.  Trying to put my life back together.  You can ask her.  I’ve been doing well.  I just was too lazy to walk all the way over there that night.”

“Don’t get all riled up.  We have to ask.  You know that,” Archibald reassured him.  “I was hoping a trained observer like you could help us figure this out.  That’s all.  You’ve been a big help.  Thanks.”

Archibald clapped him on the shoulder and he and Graybow returned to their car.  Once inside Graybow asked, “You didn’t really think that bum could help, did you?”

“That bum, as you call him, used to be the head of security of Dahlcom Communications.  He got downsized about five or six years ago and took up drinking as an occupation.  He lost everything; his job, his marriage and home, had a business fail.  He’s been roaming around like a lost soul.  I keep an eye on him.  Make sure he’s not slipping too far.  I’d heard he was hanging around the Ashville Shelter trying to get his life back on track.  I guess it was too much to hope for that he would have seen something that could help us.  Guess he’s just too far gone.”  Archibald’s shoulders slumped in defeat.  He felt sad that a man who’d helped him as a young cop had fallen so far.  He felt bad that he couldn’t have somehow stopped Edwards from being an alcoholic. 

They went back to the station hoping that the forensic team had some new information that would help them crack the case and find the murderer.

A lone Mourning Dove came to the birdbath this morning.  I carefully got the camera, making no sudden moves, removed the lens cap, turned the camera on, and the darned bird flew off.  Thirty seconds more and I'd have had its picture.  I looked out the window by my desk this morning when I was working on the pitch again and saw that the people diagonally across the street are feeding the birds and there was a flock of sparrows fluttering and squabbling under and around the feeder.  I was jealous.  But I have to starve out the RAT.  I haven't seen any tiny footprints in the snow for a long time.  Fingers crossed that I've outsmarted the rodent(s)..
--Barbara

Birds!

 


Look!  A flock of sparrows came to the birdbath today.  I was so excited to see them.  Not many birdies have come by since all of the feeders got put away so it was good to see this little crowd of feathered friends.



 


I got out my snowshoes and good boots and took a turn around the yard.  I'm in no shape to go tromping about in the park but I can clomp around the yard a bit, although the snow was so wet it was like walking around in a giant Slurpee.  I'll go again one of these days.




The only other noteworthy thing I did today was finish knitting January Preemie Hat #3.  I cast on #4 tonight but there's not enough of it to take a picture of.





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

              After thanking Dirk Davis for his cooperation, Archibald summoned Lt. Graybow and they went out in search of Kenneth Edwards, the man Davis said he saw outside Blossoms.  They drove first to the Ashville Community Shelter run by Teddy Allgood, one of Tiffy Davis’ closest friends.  Not finding Edwards there, they cruised through the downtown alleys finally spotting him behind a restaurant.  Graybow parked the car and they both got out to talk to him.

“Kenneth, how’ve you been?” began Archibald.

“Fine, Detective, how’re you?”

“We need your help, Kenneth.  We’ve got a witness says you were at that floral place, Blossoms, last Monday night when Tiffany Davis was murdered.”

The answer seemed a mixture of belligerence and defensiveness, “Yeah, I was there.  What about it?”

Gently Archibald said, “Now don’t get defensive.  We just want to find out of you saw anything that could help us.  Did you see anyone leave?  Hear anything?”

Kenneth Edwards looked away, thinking back to the night of the murder.  “Well, I remember seeing the lady who works there leave about 8:30, must have been let off early.  Then Tiffy came out the back with a couple of bags of trash.  She didn’t see me, I think, because she usually called out a greeting.  Then I went back to looking for cans.  Heard a car pull up a little later.  After a while when I was next door to the florist place, I saw a woman leave.  I think it was that Marlene Brownloe who runs the bookstore.  Anyway, then I decided I’d just bed down back there.  It was a warm night and I didn’t want to walk back downtown to the shelter.  So, I fixed up a place with a couple of nice boxes and settled down.  I’d been asleep when I heard a man yelling in one of the stores.  Didn’t know which one.  But then right away there were sirens coming, lots of them, so I kind of leaned around the edge of the building to see what was going on.  By then there were four or five squad cars and a rescue squad there.  I edged toward the front to try to hear what was going on.  Just then a couple of officers came out the front door with Mr. Davis.  They were yelling at him that he killed his wife.  Boy, that really surprised me.  They seemed like such a happy couple when I saw them.”

“Did you see them often?” Graybow asked.

“No, not really.  Mrs. Davis, Tiffy, she saved cans for me sometimes, so I talked to her a little.  But I only saw them together a couple of times coming out of a restaurant.  Or if he’d stop and get her after the store closed.  They were always nice to me.  Had a few words to say.  I guess I just figured they were doing okay.”

Archibald asked, “Did you see or hear anyone else after Ms. Brownloe left?  While you were getting your sleeping spot organized?”

Kenneth Edwards paused to think.  “No, I didn’t hear anything until the yelling woke me up.”

“No cars?  No voices?  No one walking around?”

“I told you.  I didn’t hear anything.”

I had to make a funeral call today at the same place as Durwood's funeral.  It was hard to make myself go but it was the brother of a friend and she deserved my effort to be there for her, even for a few minutes.  Afterward I went down to Zambaldi for a short visit with people I love.  Perked me right up.
--Barbara

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