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Splendor Bay

ONE

Saturday, May 26, 8:00 AM

There's not much to see around here if you don't count the view of sparkling turquoise water and ivory sand below buff-colored cliffs where mint-candy-colored houses dangle precariously. Some folks say the spectacular bay view is the reason God gave people eyes. Other folks don't say much. So unless you're into tight-lipped people, glorious scenery, candy-colored houses, or our main drawing card, cutesy-touristy restaurants enhanced architecturally by the hulls of old boats attached to their roofs, there's no reason to be here.

The view is what does it for me. On a clear day and with a clear head, a jog along Splendor Bay beach is reason enough to be living. It's my coming-of-age panorama, the place where my teenage ghost plays the male lead in the Beach Blanket Bingo adaptation of Splendor in the Grass always running on the drive-in movie screen in my mind's eye. The view and my ghost are the reasons I've never been able to grow up and leave home. Correction. I did leave once, for too many years, but I don't plan on ever doing that again.

Anyway, the day was one of those crisp, crystalline May days that come just before summer's heat, a day with a shimmering cornflower-blue sky and not a whiff of the refineries down the coast, a day for feeling young in my little spot of heaven on planet earth. Even the booze ache behind my eyes had eased up enough for me to contemplate a jog on the beach as my workup to a day of pretending I still had my life ahead of me, still had time to get it right if only I'd give it one more try.

There I was, contemplating my woebegone past and my uncertain future, thinking maybe this would be the day I really would give it one more try, when I glanced down from my perch on the deck of Sally Solana's bay view manor and had an entirely different thought: why the heck is that John Doe near the water's edge choosing to be dead on such a day?

There he was, in a black tuxedo, with the diamond-studs in his shirt glistening brighter than the mica in the quartz sand, washed up with the seaweed, spoiling my view, interfering with my contemplation of activities physical, right out there on the good stretch of beach where I should have been running. Looking back, I guess it wasn't a matter of choice, for the stiff or for me. Things happen. Sometimes you have to ride the wave.

I had strolled out to the deck with my first cup of coffee just as the beach patrol discovered the body. That caught my eye. After shrugging their shoulders at each other, they called out Splendor Bay's finest. The men in tan arrived quickly with the siren blaring. That got my full attention. I finished my second fix of caffeine while watching the activities below through Sally's opera binoculars.

Tiny Sanders, the biggest of our local cops, was stomping around, doing just about every dumb thing imaginable to destroy the integrity of the crime scene, everything but kick the body to see if the stiff really was dead. His partner, the newest and youngest member of the three-man Splendor Bay PD, a twenty-one-year-old black kid with the Hispanic name Gomez, was puking his guts out behind the dune in front of the department's one and only squad car, a vehicle that I now respected. The Police Caprice, with a 5.7 liter V-8, could outrun Baby, my sleek '57 Corvette rag-top with her original 283-cubic-inch, gas-guzzling, many-times-lovingly-rebuilt engine. I had discovered that sobering fact when Gomez gave me a run for my money, just before I failed his breath-analyzer test, just after I burned up what remained of Baby's brake shoes trying to stop before I landed in the middle of the bay.

When the rescue squad's elderly Bronco ambulance/coroner's meat wagon pulled in behind the Caprice, I bet myself that Splendor Bay's premier crime fighters would get one of the vehicles stuck in the sand before they finished the paper-work on the dead dude. And when they pulled out the zip-lock stiff bag, curiosity got the best of me. I doubled my bet with myself and made the fateful decision to leave the safety of my girlfriend's cliff-hugging house for a closer look-see. Actually, "girl" is a mild stretch of the facts in Sally Solana's case. And I don't suppose you could call her my friend anymore.

Just so you know, I don't normally go poking my nose into crime scenes I'm not paid to poke my nose into. But this one was different. I don't normally find death on my doorstep. And with Sally's opera glasses, I had counted a dozen glittering diamond studs in the John Doe's pleated shirt. Since we don't get many stiffs on this section of beach and the ones we do get don't usually turn up wearing a tux, that had me extra curious.

I wanted to see who he was, something I couldn't do from Sally's deck because his face tilted away from me in his final view of the bay. I was figuring someone might be willing to pay for a photo or two, or a few unofficial facts on a stiff who could afford to die in diamonds. I could definitely use the cash since this month's Scotch trust-fund allowance had already been spent at Fred's Fine Liquors, down the boardwalk from Fred's Fine Seafood Bar and Grill, up the beach from my own humble shack.

You never know, I told myself, John Doe might be somebody interesting enough for a grocery store tabloid. Or some rich relative might want to know where he was and/or who or what had done him in, which was part and parcel of my current line of work -- private eyeing -- when the weather was unsuitable for surfing. Besides, I reasoned, if someone who knew something about protecting the evidentiary value of crime scenes, such as me, didn't get down there soon, what few clues there were would be washed away in the next tide.

Having concluded the cops could use my help, I pulled a pair of shorts on over my briefs, slipped on a T-shirt and flip-flops, picked up my camera, and casually descended the steep wooden stairs to the beach. Gomez was through puking when I got close enough for it to matter. He had started back around the vehicles toward the dead dude, ready to be a man about it, when I caught up with him.

"Who is it, Gomez? Anybody who anybody would care is dead?" I asked politely. I believe in being polite and direct. You never know, sometimes the truth pops out when you confuse people like that. If that doesn't work, you can always go to phase two -- intimidation, or bribery.

"What're you doing here, Fragile Dick?" Gomez asked, being impolite as heck as he hitched up his pants just like Barney Fife on the old Andy Griffith Show.

Fragile Dick had been my handle since third grade. It was the worst thing any of the little guys could think of to do with a last name like Glasscock; there wasn't much you could do with a first name like Bill. Fortunately, for my self-respect and for the women in my life, Fragile Dick was a misnomer.

"Just happened to be in the neighborhood, visiting a friend. Guess you could say ex-friend if you want to be meticulous in your terminology. Up there." I pointed to the enormous house where Sally-with-the-gorgeous-body-and-exceptional-brain graciously allowed me to spend the night. Not that I was in any condition to leave when our friendship ended, mind you. Sally must have been. Able to leave, that is. Because she wasn't there when I woke up with the strong belief that a little sun on my face would take away the too-much-whiskey pain behind my eyeballs. So far, I had been half-right. If I squinted with the left eye closed, I didn't hurt as much.

I squinted at the kid. "Come, on, Gomez. Who's the stiff? Anybody important?"

"Maybe," Gomez allowed. "Tiny just told the Chief he ought to get his white honky ass out here, real quick. I was heading back over there when you so rudely interrupted me from my duties to the citizens of our fair town."

"Fair is right, Gomez. Do your superiors know you're a bigot? I bet Tiny never said the Chief had a white honky ass. It's probably a red pimply ass anyway. You're the only guy in town who doesn't have sun-bleached hair and all you do is lord it over us white guys. Just because you have a tan to die for. What do you use anyway? A minus SPF 45 sunscreen?"

"Why? You want to be beautiful like me, Fragile Dick?"

"Of course. Why do you think I spend so much time in the sun? I've seen the way girls turn their head when you drive around in the cruiser."

"I'll need some official identification before I let you near my crime scene," Gomez said, a bit chattier now that I had acknowledged his superior swordsmanship. "How do I know they didn't pull your license for good cause since the last time I saw you? And I'd like to inventory the guy's pockets before you get within ten feet of him. Routine procedure. Remember?"

"Come on, Gomez, just one teeny, tiny favor," I whined, "and I'll let you keep the diamond studs."

Gomez didn't answer. At that moment, we heard the squawk of the Police Caprice radio. Tiny Sanders, the other cop, was communicating with the world at large, the Chief in particular.

"Yeah, done that," Tiny shouted over the surf's roar. "Have a tentative ID on the floater. Driver's license says he's Wallace Moreno. Had five hundred in cash in a money clip, so he wasn't robbed. I'd say you'd better get ready to vote for a new governor, Chief. The current one is a little under the weather."

I have to admit, when I heard that, my first thought was -- There is a God!

My second thought was -- Oh, what a beautiful morning! In my mind's eye my teenage ghost did a quick Swan Lake up and down the beach.

The slimy bastard was dead. Joy! Joy!

In addition to being the late Governor Moreno of our great state, he was the same self-serving cur who had aided and abetted my beautiful and soon-to-be ex-wife in the fine old practice of cuckoldry, or cheating, as in "Your Cheating Heart," if you prefer Hank Williams to William Shakespeare, as most folks do.

My prayers had been answered. For reasons as yet known only to God, instead of enjoying my wife, the governor was now enjoying the state of final repose I had wished upon him.

My third thought was -- Darn! I bet they'll think I did it.

I was right. It didn't take long for the cops to give my third thought serious consideration. By then, I had more acute concerns.

* * *

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Splendor Bay is available for immediate download:

Adobe Ebook -- Powell Books

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Softcover and Hardcover

ISBN 0970622414, Trade Softcover

ISBN 0970622422, Library Hardcover

SPLENDOR BAY is now available as a free audio book for Texans with disabilities who are registered to receive the Texas State Library's Talking Book Program library service. Order catalog number CT 6629 through your local library.

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"Splendor Bay lands ex-attorney Bill Glasscock in... a whirlwind search for the women in his life, a murderer, and proof of his own innocence" -- Publishers Weekly

"The commonplace becomes extraordinary"
-- Midwest Book Review

"The exceptional sense of place draws you in... a sensual, suspenseful murder mystery" -- Review of Texas Books

"Packed with action and realistic characters who not only face incredible hurdles, but also react with genuine emotions and tongue in cheek humor, Splendor Bay is a book to be savored" - The Romance Readers Connection

"Splendor Bay grabs you immediately! A great thriller and a can't put down book. You will be surprised with the conclusion" - Scribes World Reviews

"A quick read with satisfying twists and a great ending" - MyShelf

"There's plenty of humor, suspense, and complications in this excellently crafted mystery. Put this one on your 'must read' list" - Rendezvous Magazine

"Moral ambiguities, snappy dialogue, and twists that keep the pages turning... an exceptionally accomplished debut novel" - Chris Rogers, author of Bitch Factor

"Smart, sassy, and sexy, with enough twists and turns to make you dizzy, Splendor Bay is a splendid read!" - Lorna Michaels, author of The Truth About Elyssa

"A fabulous writer" - Tony Fennelly, Edgar nominated author of Don't Blame the Snake

"The plot catapults with intrigue, quirky characters, conflicted relationships, and wry, wry humor. Did I mention the humor?" - Roger Paulding, author of The Pickled Dog Caper

"A page-turning story filled with cracking wit and suspense" - Julie Wray Herman, Agatha nominated author of Three Dirty Women and the Bitter Brew