Meantime, the cover for My More Than Sister is nearly here, and gorgeous, for e-release in October. It may be available as a paperback too; I'll announce that. No, I'll yell it over every available venue. Here's my wisdom about the semicolon:
I’m sometimes tempted to sneer at the incorrect use of a word (bad/badly, between/among, like that). No, I lie; I often sneer at the incorrect use of anything having to do with our language; I’m not called a curmudgeon for nothing; but on one topic I find it safer to maintain a dignified silence: the proper use of the semicolon; I overuse it; I love it.
I work beside a shelf of reference works for the writer which I largely ignore; however, I often look up the placement of the semicolon; then, for some reason, I mostly ignore what I learned and immediately forgot. Call it a foible, a charming lapse. Please.
Lewis Thomas, the essayist, wrote a witty piece about punctuation; maybe you were assigned to read it in college as I was. I reread it the other day in a fit of snobbish virtue after wallowing in a thriller by Stuart Woods. Lewis Thomas exhibited a subversive humor with which he made the following lovely point about the semicolon; I’d like to share.
“The semicolon tells you that there is still some question about the preceding full sentence; something needs to be added; ... with a semicolon there you get a pleasant little feeling of expectancy; there is more to come; read on; it will get clearer.”
That‘s five semicolons in one short paragraph; I cut out another one. “Read on; it will get clearer.” I could summon a reverent gratitude for that statement alone--the eminent man’s excuse to use the little symbol. I believe, perhaps too ardently, in the wisdom of clarification and amplification; especially when I’m not sure what it is, exactly, that I want to say. I clarify a lot, then amplify, give examples, and repeat myself until the painful time that it’s time to (gulp) edit my work. Then it’s time for the stylebook.
Or, if I’m not being paid, not. You understand.
And here's Chapter 22 of Dead on Dutcher's Mountain. If you're tempted, you can buy it and my other spawn here: amazon.com/author/margaretraymond
Dead on Dutcher's Mountain
Twenty-TwoWhen McCoy reached his office he got another report of a dead bear in one of those big traps, then held a briefing with the two weekday men and told them about the break-in attempt in the lab. He got the transcribed interviews of the guests at the mine. He called the California Highway Patrol to request sightings on all Accordos north of Sacramento. Dorothy Brock, Dudmann’s mother, came by to be sure that he was after her son’s murderer, and in retaliation he gave her a cup of his lab coffee. He got a memo from the Board of Supervisors advising that the Boys’ Camp in the mountains would require a daily escort of two officers to the Courts, please advise name of assigned personnel and number of vehicle. And there was a fight at The Whole Tribe between picketers. By the time he wanted take-out Chinese, the sheriff was sure it would only poison him. He passed it up.
Then something interesting happened which took his mind off Hillary, Brian and the bureaucratic end of his business. In response to an identity check on “Karl Voerst’s” photos, he got a message confirming the giant’s identity as Robin VenLoo, formerly of South Africa. The interesting part said that Robin VenLoo was dead, the victim of an explosion some three years ago. Interpol would greatly appreciate current information to the contrary. The message did not state the place of his death.
McCoy e-mailed back that the explosion probably actually killed Karl Voerst, etc., and who the hell was Robin VenLoo really, please supply place and date of birth, education, profession, vital stats, sartorial, sexual and gustatorial preferences, anything, sincerely yours.
Hot damn. He might get a chance to do some real detecting.
Example: if VenLoo was posing as Voerst, he had Voerst’s identification. Did he get it from (sarcastically) the man himself? Did he (generous) find it somewhere? Did he (more generous yet) have it forged? Or did he (probably) get it from Voerst’s corpse? No to the first three; he had killed Voerst for his identity and McCoy would bet on it. Had probably killed him slowly, painfully, which would be warped justice for the spy.
And: was VenLoo in Del Norte County in order to lie low, or was he at Dutcher’s Mine for some active thieving, as Gunderson claimed?
And: if merely lying low, would he do a workmanlike job up there as the number-two man, if left alone?
Where had he been, and what he been doing for the past three years? Dollars to doughnuts he had been out of the country, say Italy, where the Accordos were made.
And; if not lying low, what was he after?
In fact, why become Voerst just now, instead of three years ago when the man probably died?
Well, it was a puzzle, and diverting; it made form-filling less tedious. There were a bunch of forms surrounding the weekend’s bodies, and the phone calls were beginning to come in from the public. He hummed to himself.
Deputy Linda buzzed him when Hillary finished signing the papers. Surprised, he led her into his closet-sized office and installed her in the guest chair.
She looked around. No photos or certificates adorned the walls, no papers littered the desk. There were no plants or brass symbols of status, only a cheap wall clock the size of a dinner plate. The only hint of McCoy’s personal taste, and she remembered it from before, was contained in a silver frame standing beside his plastic-covered blotter. It held a Turkish print of a tiger hunt. Its delicacy of line and lush color were eye-riveting.
McCoy brought his chair beside Hillary’s, hunched, his fingers fiddling, tongue-tied.
“Is this official, Earl?” she asked.
“I didn’t know you’re here. Are you all right? Are you going to make it?”
“Yes.” She cleared her throat.
“Did the doctor up there give you anything?”
“No. The receptionist told her what you did.”
“Not enough. You’ll need something to sleep tonight.”
“I don’t think so, Earl.”
“I’ll feel better if you do.” Disconcertingly he adjusted his desk lamp to shine into her eyes and lifted her eyelid with his thumb.
She jerked. “Earl!”
He restored the lamp to its usual position. “Just checking, Hill. Maybe I’ve lost my bedside manner.”
She attempted a chuckle. “You certainly have.”
“Is there anyone to stay with you tonight?”
“No, but I don’t need that.”
“Yes you do. You’ve been running right at the edge for so long you can’t feel the difference when you’re about to slip over.” He was frowning. Finally he surrendered to impulse and touched her hand.
McCoy’s pity was the final blow to Hillary’s frail strength. Gratefully she took both his hands, tight. Her eyes squeezed shut. Her body quivered and trembled and shuddered and threatened to shake itself apart, and she hoped it would, hoped the blackness behind her eyes would grow big enough to hold all of her, to hide her, to hide her forever. It devastated McCoy.
“I’ll get him, Hill. I’ll get him if it kills me,” he promised. “This is just too damned much. It’s the dirtiest trick, it’s the awfullest, filthiest thing.... You’ve worked so hard and gone so far, and now...”
Hillary rose from the well of pain like an untalented swimmer, awkwardly. “Don’t Earl. Of course you’ll find the man who shot Bri. You’re a good sheriff.”
“It’s hurt you beyond all reason. Just after seeing Gail’s corpse, still finding your feet from that, and exhausted to begin with. And Karen needs so much, she’ll take so much attention. It makes me flat crazy.”
“Earl, please don’t talk about it. I’m not ready, and I don’t want you to be upset for me. Please stop.”
They held hands silently and looked at the floor between their feet. “I want to be with you tonight, Hill. Help scare away nightmares. I’ll stay on the couch.”
“Thank you. I guess Karen will want a friend, too.
“I’ll come by around seven. Rosalie said she’d bring Karen about that time.”
“All right.”
They sat. Hillary found herself studying McCoy’s hands and was reminded of Sunday’s banquet when she watched Karl’s, flirting with him. Only last night. Impulsively she bent to kiss his fingers and again remembered Karl, his gesture after she identified Gail’s body. She smiled ironically and felt McCoy stroke her hair.
He stiffened. “Gail’s pendant.”
Hillary straightened and fingered the diamond. “The doctor gave it to me with Bri’s things. His cufflinks and key chain and his other things. At the hospital.” She pulled it toward the sheriff, offering it like a child while it was still clasped, a half-guilty gesture.
“He had a chain in his hand,” McCoy said. He was so agitated that he was on his feet. “Broken. The stone must have been in his palm. It slipped my mind.”
“Yes. Didn’t you give him her jewelry this morning?”
“I didn’t give him that.”
Hillary looked at the stone, flashing with independent life. In her present state it did not remind her of Karl Voerst closing his frilled evening shirt when they met, or his watchful attention to it over lunch. Nevertheless, she was puzzled. “You’re sure it was Gail’s?”
“Of course. She’s the only one around with real jewelry like that. She never went without it. But it wasn’t on her body.” Hillary reached to unclasp the chain. “Yes, take it off. Karen will recognize it.”
Hillary slid the stone from the chain and toyed with it in her palm. It was emerald-cut, blue-white, perhaps two carats. She said, “Knowing Bri, it’s probably worth more than the price of his car. You could buy a lot of people with something like this.”
McCoy gave a wry smile. “I suspect Gail bought a lot of social clout with it. You’ve never seen it?”
“No. I’d swear it’s not been in the house, unless Bri carried it on his person.”
“He might have. You know, as a reminder.”
“Earl, you and I know better. He’d have shown it to me. He’d be proud of giving it to Gail.”
“Right.”
McCoy was the sheriff again, musing, seated with his arms crossed. “That’s what bothered me about Gail’s body...sorry, Hill.”
“No, it’s all right. Just now I’d rather figure things out than feel.”
“Good girl. Help me remember, then?” Hillary nodded. “Was it possible to miss that necklace if it was still around Gail’s neck on Saturday?”
Hillary forced herself back into the early evening light by the cave. The corpse’s--she couldn’t call them Gail’s--feet nearest to the cave entry, with Karl there too, the head just below her camera, Earl to the right. Eyeing the light for a photograph, the reflections she could count on, the whites and metals in the photo she would take of her dead sister-in-law. Finally she shook her head.
“It would have caught your eye, right?” McCoy asked. “Even the chain without the stone would have done that, like the anklet did when the strobes went up.” She nodded again, watching him think. “Someone removed it from her remains.”
“How did Bri get it?”
“Someone might have...bear with me,. Hillary. Someone might have offered it to him for a price. Say, Saturday before I got there.”
“That’s grotesque! No one would do that. Anyhow, Gun posted a guard on the scene right away. And Bri would have told me if anyone approached him.”
“Not necessarily. Embarrassment, a kidnap threat, anything could keep it secret.”
“Not from me, Earl.”
McCoy didn’t argue. “Did he get a call this morning before the service?”
“No.”
“Then he found the necklace.”
“Fallen from Gail’s neck?”
He hated this. “No, because there’d be dirt in the mounting. It was taken from Gail’s neck.” Pause. “As long as it’s missing, of course, it’s the only indication there was a witness. A witness to her death.”
Hillary passed both hands across her graying face. “But that’s just silly, so say someone took the necklace but not her rings and other things.”
“Maybe.”
McCoy did not say more, but he knew that his theory about pot-farmers setting bear traps in that cave was more hopeful than probable. He sometimes accused himself of morbidity, and the ugly thought in his mind about fetishes and sadism would have justified that accusation. Except that he remembered Robin VenLoo’s erotic reaction to the sight of Gail’s remains.
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