One place to get a plot

It turns out that one place might be a Thesaurus.  My local Dollar Store has a book section, and during my monthly browse in that crowded aisle I found Webster’s Basic Thesaurus.  Kind of mind-boggling that so much erudition and hard work can be had for a dollar, isn’t it?  I snapped it up. 

A couple of minutes ago I picked it up from my bed pillow [no, I don’t claim to be an erudite egghead; it’s just that even my light going-to-sleep reading tends to be campy].  I opened it at random.  “Undermine,” I read, “v. ...disable...excavate...sabotage.”  Aha! I thought, the very stuff of Dead on Dutcher’s Mountain, my novel about a sadistic saboteur and his hapless girlfriend. 

I returned to the Thesaurus and found, referring to the same word but to an altogether different set of signifiers, “impair...sap...vitiate.”  “Yeah”, thought I, 'undermine’ also refers to what that dirty bastard did to people’s thinking, the way he made them feel crummy and worthless.”   

And then I thought, “Hey!  NaNoWriMo is just around the seasonal corner.  What’ll I write this November?  Maybe...” 

I found this dilly: spray.  Spray is a noun, as in a sheltering bough, a prom-queen’s corsage, a funeral wreath, which connects like magic in my perfervid imagination to a sequence, thus: Under the illusion of sheltering boughs a corsage-wearing prom-queen meets her brutal end and her cynical killer sends a wreath to her funeral.  Then he meets his own violent end in a spray of bullets which atomize his sorry self. 

It’s all in an association of ideas, isn’t it?  I hope I remember it until November.

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Here's another chapter from Dead on Dutcher's Mountain.  Our heroine has met the main characters; her old lover the sheriff, her old friend Rosalie, and the fascinating new guy at Dutcher's Mine.  Now she's going to join the opening-night party for the mine. 

Chapter Four

Lots of people, lots of noisy music, lots of booze; the party could be heard far across the compound.  Rosalie paused only long enough to introduce Hillary to Altstock at the door.  Heads whipped around at her celebrated name; elbows nudged. 

“Well!  The reporter,” Altstock began.  “Stunning cape!  And your gown….  With an interviewer so lovely, tomorrow’s meeting will be a pleasure!”

“Mr. Altstock,” she murmured, and shook his hand, ready to follow Rosalie.
Altstock wasn’t through.  “Brian speaks about his little sister so convincingly that I expected to see ‘gee whiz’ all over your face!”  He smiled, hard.  His hand found her arm.
Hillary moved away, pointedly eyeing the offending hand. “No ‘gee whiz’ left, I’m afraid.”
“In that case, welcome;  my party is yours,” he said but with less unction.  “Rosalie Burns is my assistant; she has the guest list.  Perhaps you know her?”
“She introduced us.”  Her glacial tone made no further dent; dismissive, he turned to greet the next in line.  To Hillary’s relief she saw Joshua Gunderson, burly, bearded and despite tux and cummerbund as solidly comforting as warm bread.  He waved with his good hand and slowly made for her through the crowd.
Hillary took her bearings.  As she left the low-ceilinged foyer, roll-away coat racks were on the left-hand wall, a long wet bar around the corner on the right.  A spiral wrought-iron staircase beyond the bar led to a mezzanine converted from the barn’s loft.  She was at one end of a half-timbered, imperial-sized room whose walls rose two stories to blackened cross-timbers.  The floor was oak, the furnishings leather and wrought iron, the decorations a hunter’s full armory with Native American wall hangings between.
“Glad you got here, Hillary,” Gunderson said as he took her hand.  “You know Rosalie; have you found her?”
“We came together, but got separated.  I didn’t expect so large a crowd.
“Join me and my wife.  We plan to dissipate our vital juices and wake tomorrow in a welter of rue.”
“You must have an interesting wife.”
Gunderson handed her a plastic flute of champagne from a table.  “A comparatively abstemious one.  Actually, she plans to leave early.” 
Jessica Gunderson was a soft-faced, dark-eyed Pueblo Indian with her black hair in squash blossoms over her ears.  She wore a one-shouldered Hopi dress belted with silver conchos.  Her nails were the red of her dress. 
“Nice to meet you, Miss Webster,” she said.  “Joshua claims you will make a good addition to our party.”  Her voice was as warm as her pleasant face; Hillary relaxed.
They moved to a dais against the left wall and sat at a pigskin-topped Mexican table.  Hillary took an occasional photo and chatted about northern Arizona.  Dancers filled the center of the room.  Rosalie talked with a munchkin wearing a full, gray-streaked beard and an extravagant waxed mustache.  He stood with his hands in the pockets of a very rough tweed jacket and seemed eager to keep her attention.
“Is that Dr. Jones with Rosalie?” Hillary asked.
“The man himself,” Gunderson answered.
“What is his new process?  In a nutshell, I mean.”
Jessica smiled and lowered her face to her drink.  Gunderson said, “He’ll have to describe it.  It recovers nearly all of the commercial minerals in a given ore.”
“If it works, I’m mightily impressed.”
Gunderson shifted in his chair until it squeaked.  “Don’t underestimate him; he owns about a dozen patents in electrowinning alone.”
There was a stir at the door.  Gunderson waved for Rosalie and she came over.  “More men are leaving, Rosie,” he said.  “Anything new?”
“Not yet,” she answered.  “Hi, Jessica.  Your dress looks great.  Is the hair staying up?  Yeah.  Too bad we couldn’t do it without pins.  Hill, will you take this?”  She handed up her empty glass and turned back to Gunderson before either woman could answer.  She said, “The sheriff wants someone down there all the time.  He’s at the office, rounding up volunteers.”
“Volunteers?” Jessica asked.  “Doesn’t he know there’s a party?”
“He probably didn’t think of it.  He’s pretty serious about his job.”  Rosalie pulled a face.  “You know about that sort of thing.”
Hillary asked, “Volunteers for what?  To catch that bear trapper?”
“Bear trapper?” Gunderson asked, “Trap?  They’re illegal.”
“Gun’s being evasive,” Rosalie said.  “Isn’t that just like a cop?”  Momentary, general consternation.  “Oh!” she said too brightly, and pointed to Karl Voerst as he towered in the entry.  “He’s good party material!”
Hillary smelled a story and was not distracted.  “A policeman?  You’re working with Earl?”
Rosalie reached up and patted his knee.  “I’m sorry, Gun.  Anyway, McCoy would have told her about it later.”
“Ooh?” Jessica said. 
It was an elongated syllable, teasing and friendly,  But the conversation had stopped.  Brian danced by leading Karen, very solemn.  Altstock was with the pharmacist’s blue-haired wife.  Bailey; that was her name.  Finally Gunderson said, “I was a miner until this.”  He indicated his immobile right arm, his useless hand.  “Commerce asked me to help up here.  They don’t want any problems with chromite; it’s a strategic metal.”
“You represent the feds.  The Department of Commerce.”
His eyes held hers, enjoining secrecy.  “Yes.”
“I’d be interested to know what you find.”
“We’ll talk before you leave,” he promised.  He relaxed, now also including the other women.  “Just now, the sheriff’s staking out a bale of marijuana one of the men found.”
“Miss Webster has promised the evening to me.”
It was Karl Voerst; deep of voice, elegant of attire, scintillant with glamour.  He loomed from the dance floor and overtopped Hillary where she stood on the dais.  She made introductions.  The other women reacted with gratifying awe and sidelong glances.  Gunderson’s face abruptly closed down.
Then she and Voerst were dancing.  She saw Jones, the little chemist, join Gunderson’s party.  From time to time she heard Rosalie’s laugh.  Gunderson disappeared.  Voerst laid siege.  His dancing was wonderful, his gallantries outrageous, his smile dazzling.  She looked for McCoy, but increasingly enjoyed flirting.  They became the center of a widening circle of attention and she enjoyed that, too.  When they weren’t dancing, they talked politics, Hillary’s automatic topic, and Voerst sounded interested although she doubted it was sincere.  Also, he claimed the obvious as if it were his own discovery: that her own pained response to the victims of war was the basis of her popular appeal.  But he claimed to have another, unique response to their pain and declared again that their meeting was fated.  He was grandiose but sounded sincere.
Then Brian appeared, carrying Karen, as Hillary and Voerst stood before the fireplace.  Karen slouched on her father’s shoulders with her arms across his head as a pillow.  Hillary introduced Voerst.  Brian was perfunctory, barely shaking hands before turning to his sister.
“Hill, help me tuck Karen in?” he asked.
“Please?” Karen begged with exaggerated grogginess.  “Daddy brushes my hair wrong.”
Hillary shot Voerst a glance of apology.  “Sure, hon.”
There was a ruffled comforter on Karen’s the cot with a stack of Disney comics on the night stand.  “Wow!  Ms. Burns must have done this,” Hillary enthused.
“It’s nice,” Karen murmured, and crawled onto the cot.  Her father, seeing too late that she ignored the comforter, scooped her up and stuffed her beneath it.  Her face was flushed and her pale hair curled over her forehead.  Her eyelashes swept deeply across her cheeks.  She slept.
“She’s really pretty, isn’t she?”  Brian could never say the obvious, that she was a replica of her mother.
“Very pretty,” Hillary agreed.  “Very lovable.”
He crossed to his bed and sat down, watching his daughter.  His fingers pushed at one another until the palms met and the fingers splayed, then clenched.  “I think I bought something tonight, Hill.  About Gail.  I think she’s dead.”  His hands moved to his knees.  “I mean, not missing, not kidnapped for money.  And she didn’t run away from me.  I think she’s dead.”
Hillary froze in place.  She had waited for this, for Brian to accept the most likely truth.  He went on, still watching his daughter.  “Gail wouldn’t run away, that wouldn’t make sense.  She was crazy about Karen, and we got along okay.  Better than that.  She seemed to like her life, the PTA, the 4-H, that sort of thing.”  He stopped.
Impulsively Hillary knelt on the floor to take both his rigid hands.  She said, “Bri, look at me.  Really; look.  Gail loved you.  She didn’t just like being a banker’s wife, or being Karen’s mother.  She loved.  You.  She was proud of you.  She wrote me especially whenever you got important accounts, or got some new ordinance approved in City Council.”
He wasn’t looking, hadn’t heard.  “She did?”
“She was pleased with her social position, of course, but the main thing in Gail’s life was that she loved you.  Listen; she loved you, and loved it that you two had a lovely little girl.”
He freed a hand to stroke her head.  “Funny little Hill,” he said, “your curls never would stay where you put them.”  He looked back at his daughter.  “You go back to the party.  I’ll stay and keep Karen company.”
“A baby-sitter is on the way, remember?”
“Yes.  I’ll be over soon.”
The party was in high gear.  Rosalie was dancing with Jones, and Altstock with Jessica Gunderson.  Voerst stood beside the fireplace as before, attentively flirting with a young girl in spiked hair who patted his arm. 
Then McCoy was there, he was all there was in the room, he was taking her into his arms and he was warm and she fit into him and they were beginning to dance.  The room expanded, the noise quieted, the people faded to shadows as they moved, his chin against her hair.  Yes, she was enjoying the party, yes, she was starting a book, yes, Brian and Karen were having a rough time. 
Yes, Earl.  Still, after years.
But he didn’t know it.  Gunderson interrupted, asking, “Can I see you, McCoy?”
“In a minute.  I want Hill to do something.”
Hillary stiffened.  “I thought this was a social occasion.”
“Meet me in the office, Gunderson,” McCoy said, and led her across the floor and out to the empty porch for quiet.  The light overhead lay harshly across the lines on his forehead.  He took a slow breath.  “Sorry, Hill.  I don’t get many social occasions.”
“My mistake.”
He folded his arms.  “That hasn’t changed, Hill.”
Suddenly she couldn’t control her anger.  “Then why did you bother to dance with me?” she demanded.  “You were just curious, right?  ‘What’s she like now?  Did all that big-city stuff change her?  Is the celebrity too high-falutin’ to respond to a real man like me?’  That’s what you wanted to know, isn’t it?  Whether I’m still your little ole gal?”
“Hill, for the love of Christ.”  His voice was held low to avoid attention, but also because he was a quiet man.
“Your little ole gal grew up, Earl.  It’s the only difference.  If she’s got a sharper tongue, it’s been honed on that built-in shit detector you told her to get when she was a kid!”
His fingers shot over her mouth and she got still, aware that she had overreacted.  And yes, she admitted too, she was already tired, which hopefully accounted for...
He said, “All right, Hill, I wanted to use you.  I also wanted to say hello, and maybe sneak a hug.  To help remember you.  Or maybe even remind you.”
She looked at him, he looked at her.  Her shoulders fell. 
“What do you want?  I’ll help.”  McCoy waited for a condition.  “I mean it.  I overreacted and I’m sorry.  I apologize.”
McCoy felt the back of his neck, hesitated, then pocketed his hands.  “Okay.  I want you to photograph Karl Voerst.  He’ll be around all weekend while you‘re here.  And I want the negatives.”
Hillary’s eyes narrowed.  “Why?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“No.  You’ll tell me now, and it’ll have to be good.  I’ve seen enough covert police action to last my lifetime.”
McCoy sighed.  “Okay.  Karl Voerst, like every person connected with this strategically important mine, is subject to thorough scrutiny.  He has Top Secret government clearances from ‘way back.  But.”  He waited.
“Yes?”
“Some serious questions have been raised about his recent past.”
“The bear?”
McCoy looked blank, then shook his head.  “No.  Something else.”
“Something serious?” Hillary guessed.  “That drowning at The Whole Tribe?”
Suddenly McCoy was laughing at her.  “I’ll be damned,” he chuckled, “You really haven’t changed, have you?”
“Am I right?”  Now Hillary was smiling too.
“No.”
“Why do you want pictures of him?”
“I have some checking to do.”
“In South Africa?”
“How did you know that?”
“He has an accent.  He’s charming when he flirts.”
McCoy was quickly alert.  “He’s flirting with you?”
“Danced with me exclusively so far,” Hillary boasted.  “Until you butted in,” she added.
McCoy could be infuriating; “Good,” he said, “I want mug shots.  You know, front and profile.  Try not to let him know.”
“Hunh.”
When she reentered the big room she found Brian leaning against the bar and holding a straight shot of something clear.
“Let me have one of those,” she told him.
“What was that all about with Earl?” he asked.  “I thought I heard you yell at him.”
“Nothing.  I misread his friendliness and got possessive.”
Brian was tipsily amused.  “Which, translated, means my sister lost her sang froid.  But is it possible?”  He asked the world in a general, room-encompassing gesture as he pivoted to face the dancers.  He downed his drink, turned back to the bar and signaled for two more.  “Can it be imagined?  Hillary Webster, sweetheart since birth to the handsome, eligible, gun-totin’ sheriff, deserts the man for the glamorous big city and, on returning to his jurisdiction, finds still flaming the torch she thought she had effectually drowned in his tears and the honest sweat of her shining brow?  Pas posible!”
“Oh, shut up.  I’ll be all right a couple of men from now.”
“All right, then let’s gossip.”  He waved to the party with a leer.  “Per example, let’s gossip about that big creepy guy with Rosalie.  The long-hair.”
“Karl Voerst?  Why creepy?”
“Well, look at him.  He’s like a zombie, staring over her head like that.  Bored silly, with the most beautiful woman in the room.  That’s number one.  Then there’s the way he stands by the wall when he’s alone...”
“Balderdash.”
Jessica Gunderson danced by with Altstock, saying “...wouldn’t have come here at all, with what we had, if...”  There was something akin to panic in her voice.  She saw Hillary and stopped talking.
“Let’s dance, Bri,” Hillary urged.,  “I want to hear that.”
“Cat.”
“Come on, Bri!  I’m curious.”
“No.”
Hillary followed the couple with her eyes.  Altstock was attentive, his expression tender, but they were beyond earshot.  Jessica left him abruptly and headed for the spiral staircase.  On the way she spoke briefly to Gunderson.
“Altstock’s best friend,” Brian observed more soberly.  “Too bad.”
They watched Gunderson motion Altstock into an alcove under the stairs.  They couldn’t hear, but the men seemed casual, business-like.  There would be no scene.  Brother and sister drifted separately into the party.
“I missed you,” Voerst told Hillary as they met on the dais.
“I’ve been reacquainting myself with old friends.”
Her brother found him “creepy.”  McCoy wanted mug shots of him.  Gunderson, yes, Gunderson had taken an instant dislike to him and that was why he left so soon after being introduced.  She regarded Voerst curiously.  “May I take your picture for the newspaper, Karl?”
“Of course,” he said, and posed as she got all the shots McCoy could reasonably ask for.
From there it was easy and increasingly fun.  She left her camera on the table and Voerst kept her glass filled.  He kept her dizzy with dancing.  He hand-fed her hors d’oeuvres, mocking his own obvious and increasing interest.  She laughed a lot.  Finally she admitted her fatigue.  Voerst escorted her to the cabin and kissed her briefly as they parted. 
Well, why not? she asked herself.  She owed Earl McCoy not one damned thing.