taking in the information, though I wasn’t sure if it would be of any use to me.
“Maybe I’m just an old fuddy-duddy, as I’m often accused of by my daughters, but a couple of men pushing thirty ought to be living on their own, raising their own families.” He stood up and started clearing the table. “Sometimes I sound so much like my own father, it scares me. Pollo ruidoso , my daughters call me. Noisy chicken.”
I carried my plate over to the sink and started running the hot water.
“Leave those,” Rich said. “I’ll do them later.”
“Okay. Thanks for lunch. Your awards were absolutely deserved. Well, I’d better go pick up my film. See you later.”
“You bet.”
My film was ready, and I eagerly sat on the brick planter out front, flipping through the twelve photos. They were typical tourist shots of Morro Rock, the bay, and the marina down by the PG & E plant. Only one was different.
It was the James Dean monument at the intersection of Highways 41 and 46 near the town of Cholame—a name from the Salinan or Yokut Indians meaning either “the enchanted valley” or “beautiful one” depending on which county historian you believed. I’d been to the spot many times with my friends as a teenager, attracted by what we thought was the romantic way James Dean had died. Now, the thought of his young body mangled in a fiery automobile accident only made me sick at heart for the ridiculous and never changing stupidity of youth.
I gazed closer at the photo. There was a card propped next to the Tree of Heaven that canopied the monument. Printed on it was the number 226. What in the heck was that supposed to mean?
“Very funny, Mr. Chandler,” I said, stuffing the photos back in the envelope. What next? Go out to the monument? What if it was a wild goose chase? The thought of driving out there for nothing irritated me.
“Let’s go see Emory,” I said to Scout. “No one has a more devious mind than him, so maybe he can make heads or tails out of this. Besides, we’d better drop by and see the chief and let him know we made it through one more night.”
“SWEETCAKES, THIS IS gettin’ more peculiar by the minute,” Emory said, settling comfortably in his leather office chair. You’d think by the look of his office he’d been there five years instead of five months. Anyone else who had breezed into town and snatched a prime reporting job the way he had would be hated by everyone from the janitor to the city desk editor. But I’d learned never to underestimate the power of a genteel, Tupelo-honey-tongued, upper-class Southern gentleman. The women mooned about his office like lovesick poodles, and even the men found Emory amusing with his self-effacing humor and his never empty mini-refrigerator filled with imported beers, soda, and handmade, chocolate-covered bourbon candies Fed-Exed from Louisville.
“You’re telling me,” I agreed, helping myself to his crystal candy dish of Godiva chocolates. “What’s this?” I held up a dark chocolate candy heart. He knew all of Godiva’s selections by sight. Behind him hung an expensively framed calligraphy of his favorite saying—“American by birth, Southern by the Grace of God.”
“Hazelnut praline center in a dark chocolate shell. Have you told the chief about this scrapbook yet?”
“No, and I wasn’t going to because I knew he’d just worry, but now I feel obligated.”
“Why’s that?”
Settling down in one of his visitor chairs, I told him about spilling my guts to Rich and feeling somewhat guilty about it.
“As well you should,” Emory said. ”You don’t know this man from Adam’s house cat. His noble profession notwithstanding, you’d best keep any further confessions and discoveries to those you know and love.”
“You mean you.” I popped the candy into my mouth, letting the rich sweetness dissolve in my mouth. Hazelnut praline, just like he said.
“When are you going to let me start writing the article?”
“Maybe I’m just an old fuddy-duddy, as I’m often accused of by my daughters, but a couple of men pushing thirty ought to be living on their own, raising their own families.” He stood up and started clearing the table. “Sometimes I sound so much like my own father, it scares me. Pollo ruidoso , my daughters call me. Noisy chicken.”
I carried my plate over to the sink and started running the hot water.
“Leave those,” Rich said. “I’ll do them later.”
“Okay. Thanks for lunch. Your awards were absolutely deserved. Well, I’d better go pick up my film. See you later.”
“You bet.”
My film was ready, and I eagerly sat on the brick planter out front, flipping through the twelve photos. They were typical tourist shots of Morro Rock, the bay, and the marina down by the PG & E plant. Only one was different.
It was the James Dean monument at the intersection of Highways 41 and 46 near the town of Cholame—a name from the Salinan or Yokut Indians meaning either “the enchanted valley” or “beautiful one” depending on which county historian you believed. I’d been to the spot many times with my friends as a teenager, attracted by what we thought was the romantic way James Dean had died. Now, the thought of his young body mangled in a fiery automobile accident only made me sick at heart for the ridiculous and never changing stupidity of youth.
I gazed closer at the photo. There was a card propped next to the Tree of Heaven that canopied the monument. Printed on it was the number 226. What in the heck was that supposed to mean?
“Very funny, Mr. Chandler,” I said, stuffing the photos back in the envelope. What next? Go out to the monument? What if it was a wild goose chase? The thought of driving out there for nothing irritated me.
“Let’s go see Emory,” I said to Scout. “No one has a more devious mind than him, so maybe he can make heads or tails out of this. Besides, we’d better drop by and see the chief and let him know we made it through one more night.”
“SWEETCAKES, THIS IS gettin’ more peculiar by the minute,” Emory said, settling comfortably in his leather office chair. You’d think by the look of his office he’d been there five years instead of five months. Anyone else who had breezed into town and snatched a prime reporting job the way he had would be hated by everyone from the janitor to the city desk editor. But I’d learned never to underestimate the power of a genteel, Tupelo-honey-tongued, upper-class Southern gentleman. The women mooned about his office like lovesick poodles, and even the men found Emory amusing with his self-effacing humor and his never empty mini-refrigerator filled with imported beers, soda, and handmade, chocolate-covered bourbon candies Fed-Exed from Louisville.
“You’re telling me,” I agreed, helping myself to his crystal candy dish of Godiva chocolates. “What’s this?” I held up a dark chocolate candy heart. He knew all of Godiva’s selections by sight. Behind him hung an expensively framed calligraphy of his favorite saying—“American by birth, Southern by the Grace of God.”
“Hazelnut praline center in a dark chocolate shell. Have you told the chief about this scrapbook yet?”
“No, and I wasn’t going to because I knew he’d just worry, but now I feel obligated.”
“Why’s that?”
Settling down in one of his visitor chairs, I told him about spilling my guts to Rich and feeling somewhat guilty about it.
“As well you should,” Emory said. ”You don’t know this man from Adam’s house cat. His noble profession notwithstanding, you’d best keep any further confessions and discoveries to those you know and love.”
“You mean you.” I popped the candy into my mouth, letting the rich sweetness dissolve in my mouth. Hazelnut praline, just like he said.
“When are you going to let me start writing the article?”
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