Merrick Merlin Pool

1. Auflage 2012
ISBN: 978-1-62488-321-7
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 325 Seiten

While Tom Jessup is touring Yellowstone National Park with his dog, Buster, a member of a tour group is murdered by being shoved into one of the volcanic pools. Though Tom doesn't want to get involved, he soon finds himself up to his neck in clues and secrets. When more murders happen, Tom knows he must find the killer or he - or his beloved dog - could be the next victim.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Merrick, Monte

Leseproben

THE MERLIN POOL CHAPTER 1 * It was murder, and the dog did it. I don’t mean Buster committed murder, of course. The poor old guy can barely get to his water dish. But he involved me in the murder, which I could have done without. I don’t read murder mysteries or look at the newspaper’s murder page – often called “The Region” or something to disguise its true calling – or watch murder investigation series on TV. I did like the movie Dial M For Murder, but because Grace Kelly was in it. Involved I got, though, last spring on a driving vacation to some of the nation’s national parks. Since it’s just me and Buster, my small RV does fine. It may be an essential marker of reaching a certain age, but one day you wake up and want to buy a motor home. This hormonal urge happened to me in the drab days of February and I braved a snowstorm to go out and pick out a 25-foot brand new Prism. It suited Buster and me perfectly, though occasionally I longed for a little more space and comfort – a shower, a queen size bed - and treated myself to a hotel. Which is where I got into trouble. More than a desire for comfort, I needed Buster to have a bath. Along with other assorted travails of old age, Buster – who used to smell like a fresh field of clover when he was a puppy – reeks like an over-full dumpster after a while. This can be stifling when cooped up with him in a confined cabin and, though I’ve found when you love someone you forgive most of their smells, there was no wishing away or condoning Buster’s aroma. I find myself hitting the keys softly as I write this because Buster is sleeping on the floor only inches from my feet, and heaven forbid he should wake up and see what I’m writing about him. It was Buster’s need of a good wash that a hose attached to a spigot in a campground was not going to solve that caused me to check into the Yellowstone Inn & Resort that early May day. I favored simple motels when the need arose, but all those seemed to have no vacancy signs posted and I admit the tempting word “resort” lured me with its promise of a “relaxing Jacuzzi.” I’m a sucker for a Jacuzzi. It was a two-story affair with an L-shaped parking lot in front. Despite its grand name, it appeared a little shabby. It had a vaguely Western theme – the inevitable wagon wheel outside the front office – but otherwise no aesthetic merit. I pulled into the parking lot and took over a couple available spaces near the staircase, the better for smuggling Buster in. The check-in procedure was straightforward, and I was given Room 231, on the second floor. The desk woman was genial but preoccupied – the sound of an afternoon talk show came from the room behind – and I made myself as unobtrusive as possible. Buster was a dingy Labrador retriever, neither yellow nor white nor brown. His dinge was not a result of the aging process; he was always that color. As if conscious of his unappealing hue, he was always the most affectionate and playful of dogs, perfect companionship for someone who considered the presence of other human beings mostly a painful necessity. Now is not the moment to go into an Ode to Buster, and perhaps the moment will never come. The friendship of an old man and his old dog is one that probably should be left unsung, at least outside of a country song. I’ll only say that it pained me to see him get old, as it pains us all to see any one of us get old. Those who carry their old age like a proud banner into battle with mortal destiny are few and we practically never run into them. The rest of us just plod along with a resigned “what else is new?” It was ridiculously easy to sneak Buster into the room. He bravely took the stairs, even jauntily leaping up one or two, knowing as he must have that he was heading for a shower. The room doesn’t need describing; you’ve stayed in a dozen like it. Though one does wonder where the appalling prints of Yellowstone and Grand Teton scenery come from. The bed had the creaky firmness of a cheap mattress and I stretched out, lying diagonally as I couldn’t in the Lilliputian Prism. Buster seemed relieved that his dousing would wait and settled down on the carpet. A gentle snore soon arose from his weathered body. This, as it usually did, sent me into a similar slumber. When you’re on a trip, particularly a driving trip, the first lie-down in your hotel or motel is especially delightful. Time stretches like an elastic waistband; it will contain any amount of spread. You doze, then wake a little to check the light through the part in the curtains – curtains that never, however much you try, close completely – hear sounds you needn’t bother with, try to retrieve the dream you were having, segue into a different dream and you’re off again. It was 6:30 by the time I awakened fully, or at least felt the need to rouse myself so as not to “spoil” my nighttime rest. Buster also rose, but with a look of fatality as if he knew the moment of his dunking was nigh. He whined and pleaded to be spared, but his protests were a little perfunctory; he knew why we had come to the hotel. It was soon done and in a burst of youthful vigor he leapt out of the tub, ran into the main room and vigorously shook the water out of his coat, spattering everything. Buster dined in while I went out to a cowboyish bar and grill and ate something unmemorable while poring over my national parks guidebook. I’d already been to Mesa Verde in Colorado and Grand Teton down the road in Wyoming, and had vague plans to cover most of the Western parks in the lower 48. But if at any time I got sick of driving I would simply head back to Denver. This wasn’t likely to happen soon as I was making this trip to avoid the loneliness of home. True, I was alone on the road, but somehow that didn’t seem as daunting a prospect as being alone at home, puttering around, boxing up Ellie’s clothes for charity, organizing the garage again, or repairing the watering system in the garden. I was enjoying the expanse of the open road and the freedom to go anywhere I chose, as long as I didn’t flinch too much at the price of gas to fuel the camper. Buster was enough company most of the time. My friends thought I was crazy to run out one day, buy an RV and set out so randomly without even a laptop for email. It was slight relief to them that I had a cell phone, but I never mastered the tiny buttons to be comfortable texting. I mostly answered any text inquiry with one of the dozen or so choices of smiley-faces, something which undoubtedly infuriated and/or alarmed my friends. They attempted to talk me out of the trip at a party right before I left, but must have known it wouldn’t work because they had cake and presents for me, not the usual fare at an intervention. Truth was, I didn’t want to be around people right now. It wasn’t that I was sunk into a morass of mourning or tar pit of self-pity. Something dreadful did happen, but we have to march on. So I was marching, or driving, on. It was little more than that. I’ve read a certain amount of psychology – at least in magazines - and recognized that I was in denial, in shock, suffering from PTSD, running away, etc., etc. This was probably all true. But what it felt like was, numb. It felt like I was pleasantly existing. Moving through the world. Skating the surface. Stirring up no trouble. It was not uncomfortable. In fact, in the wake of Ellie’s illness and death, it felt sort of sublime, if anything can feel “sort of” sublime. It was lovely. If this is denial, it’s underrated. But then I returned from dinner to the Yellowstone Inn & Resort to find the place aswarm with police cars, a fire truck and an ambulance. My first thought was the place had caught on fire; it certainly had that tinderbox look. But, no, it was intact. A robbery was my second guess and I quickly inventoried what I had taken to the room: a gym bag of clothing and Buster’s food and water dishes. If my room was targeted, it wouldn’t be much of a score and wouldn’t require this large a congregation of emergency personnel. I was concerned about Buster, but would anyone really take the ragged old pooch hostage? At any rate, guessing is not my strong suit. I’m more an amateur logician. Give me a set of facts and I can sort through and make some sense out of them, but ask me for a guestimate of, say, tomorrow’s weather and I’m sure to be dead wrong. I didn’t even attempt the parking lot and drove on by. I found a parking spot on the street and strolled the block and a half back to the hotel. The jaggedly parked police cars and flashing lights had attracted quite a crowd and an entrepreneur could have peddled a few Yellowstone souvenirs if he’d been on the ball. It was one of those incidents which seems to have no particular focus: no crumpled cars, no body being put into the ambulance, no weeping women, consoling men. Everyone seemed to be standing around as if they had nothing better to do. I decided that since it was my hotel I had the right of access despite the incident, whatever it might be. I edged my way through the crowed toward the stairs. Predictably, as I squirmed my way amidst the tangle of hotel guests and looky-loos, I was stopped. “Sorry, sir, you’ll have to step back,” the officer informed me. “I live here,” I said ridiculously, then stammered: “I mean, I’m...