PROLOGUE

My name is Harry Morgan Hamilton and I’m an alcoholic. Other than my penchant for writing, a life well lubricated with alcohol is the only thing I have in common with William Faulkner, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Raymond Chandler, Ian Fleming, and Truman Capote et al. After dealing with pushy retail customers and inept salesclerks on a daily basis the past 17 years at the Fashion Valley Nordstrom in San Diego, California, I can truly relate why these great writers sought solace at the bottom of a bottle. Not that sobriety is any consolation for writing pulp fiction or remaining unpublished.

It’s been 10 years—seems longer—since I awoke and stumbled into the bathroom with head pounding and mouth tasting like a circus had just moved out. I didn’t like myself much as I gazed into the mirror through bleary, bloodshot eyes and recalled a meaningless acquaintance’s voice on the phone from the night before. “You really should stop drinking, Morgan,” she’d said. And in one lucid moment of revelation I pushed myself away from the sink, turned and stumbled out into the kitchen, and began pouring the contents of every liquor, wine, and beer bottle down the drain. Still, it takes a hell of a lot of will power to quit cold turkey, and if there’s one thing that hadn’t been pickled beyond salvation during those sodden years it was that. Unfortunately, I’d never employed it sooner. Otherwise, my son Bobby wouldn’t be in prison and my novels might already be in print.

I have always loved to read and, ever since I can remember, my mom encouraged me to write, constantly reminding me how great I could become if only I applied myself. However, it wasn’t until I sobered up and began staring down retirement that I took her advice seriously. With a retail career maxed out and at least half my life gone, my youthful dreams of becoming a big-time writer like Upton Sinclair, Norman Mailer, John Updike, or Gore Vidal returned. I set my goal to win a Pulitzer with my first novel because Mom always said it was the best way to jumpstart a writing career. With file drawers filled with half a dozen finished and unpublished manuscripts that have been turned down with hundreds of rejection letters, I believe she may have a point.

Norman Mailer supposedly said that, “In America, a writer can make a killing, but not a living,” which is why I’ve been supporting my family by working retail and writing in my spare time. I’d be kidding myself if I said I wrote for the money. In the past few years I’d made less than $100 selling one short story and two humorous anecdotes to periodicals. Nothing Mom would have been proud of but, to be honest, it was euphoric seeing my name in print. Having a publication pay for my writing seemed not only to validate it, but also temporarily assuage the nagging self-worth doubt of a budding mid-life crisis.

Nevertheless, in a publishing industry that spends millions on sensational true crime stories, autobiographies by scandalous politicians, and memoirs of neophyte and has-been celebrities, there seems to be little or no money left over for purchasing quality fiction. Marketability appears to have trumped writing ability and it’s extremely frustrating reading book reviews every weekend by critics who praise the latest popular releases, while I’m collecting rejection letters for what I consider much better stories.

Meanwhile, Bobby is doing 10 to 25 for second-degree murder while under the influence, which is truly heartbreaking and, except for the guilt I feel, certainly nothing to write about—least ways not an entire narrative that anyone besides family members or close friends would be interested in reading—even for the cathartic release. However, when the telephone jangled on the bedstand beside my head early one morning a little more than three years ago, it began a sequence of events that would make a compelling memoir with definite marketability. All I had to do was write it.

CHAPTER ONE

Putting it down on paper was more difficult than I imagined as I recalled the strange male voice on the phone.

“Mr. Hamilton?”

“Yeah,” I’d said, trying to read the digital clock on my wife’s side of the bed. “Who wants to know?”

“Mr. Hamilton, this is Detective Meadows from the Sedona, Arizona Police Department.” His gravelly voice vibrated the earpiece. “I apologize about the early hour, but I’m afraid I have some bad news. A neighbor found your mother’s body last night and—”

“W-what?” I interrupted, thinking I must be having a bad dream. “Found where? What are you talking about?”

“We’re still investigating, sir. However, I wanted to notify you as soon as possible.”

The red numbers came into focus: 6:15 a.m. I didn’t know what to say as I tried to clear the cobwebs out of my head and wrap my mind around what he’d just said: My mother was dead! I couldn’t believe it, but told the detective my wife and I would drive over and be there sometime later that day.

Nobody expects their parents to live forever and I’m certainly no exception because deep down we all know that someday we’ll have to say, “Goodbye.” Although Mom was 71, she appeared to be in good health and was always on the go. Every time Gloria and I tried to schedule a visit she would make a big deal about having to cancel or reschedule some social activity or club meeting. Then it was almost embarrassing the way she fawned over me in front of her friends in the Chamber of Commerce or at Friday night Bunco when we did get over there. I thought she had at least another ten years before we’d have to consider any changes to her lifestyle.

It seems that no one ever picks a convenient time to die and my mother certainly was no exception. Right before Memorial Day with sales promotions and extended shopping hours already in the works. I turned things over to my young assistant, Justin Forsyth, giving him his chance to shine. Then Gloria and I set out for Sedona, amid the crush of holiday weekend drivers clogging the highways, to make funeral arrangements and do whatever else we had to do.

The afternoon sun glared off the windshields of approaching cars causing me to squint as we arrived at the intersection of Highways 179 and 89A in “Red Rock Country,” which is what Sedona residents called Arizona’s premier resort, recreation, and retirement center. Driving through the canyon I often wondered what the first settlers must have thought about the magnificent geological creations as their covered wagons creaked and groaned across the desert hardpan. Descriptive names of formations such as Chimney Rock, Coffee Pot Rock, and Steamboat Rock offered a clue. The rugged terracotta landscape provided an unbelievable backdrop to cottonwood and sycamore trees surrounding my mother’s adobe brown, Del Sol townhouse complex. I couldn’t begin to imagine a world without Mom as Gloria and I walked up the sidewalk where bright yellow tape with CRIME SCENE, DO NOT CROSS in bold black letters was tacked across her doorway. I hadn’t had a drink in 10 years but, at that moment, one sure sounded good.

CHAPTER TWO

The door opened and man about my height, built like a bulldog, said, “Mr. Hamilton?” I immediately recognized the gruff voice. He was wearing a dark brown suit, light blue Oxford shirt with a burgundy tie, and blue protective shoe covers over what appeared to be brown, penny loafers. A silver shield with Sedona Police highlighted in turquoise enamel hung from a lanyard around his neck and white latex gloves covered his hands.

I nodded, unable to speak.

“I’m Detective Meadows,” he said, pulling the glove off his right hand and extending it past the crime scene tape barring the door. “I’m sorry about your loss.”

Gloria grabbed my other hand and squeezed as I stared at the tape.

“W-what’s going on?” I stammered, reaching for his hand.

“We’re not exactly sure, but we’re just about to wrap up here. As soon as my investigators leave I’d like you to take a look around and tell us if you notice anything of your mother’s that might be missing.”

I saw two men behind him dressed in black cargo pants and black polo shirts with Sedona CSI embroidered on the left front in turquoise and their names on the right. They wore highly polished black boots and tool belts with radios, flashlights, and various other items clipped around their waists; looking nothing like any of the investigators I’d seen on TV crime shows as they stepped around a large brown stain and shards of glass on the carpet in front of Mom’s sofa.

Detective Meadows ducked beneath the tape as he stepped out and closed the door behind him. “Why don’t we wait in the car,” he said.

Gloria held my hand as we followed him to his unmarked car and took a seat in the back with the doors open. The afternoon sun burned down from a cloudless sky and it was probably 20 degrees hotter than when we’d left balmy San Diego. Meadows sat behind the wheel and started the car before turning sideways and draping his arm over the back of the passenger’s seat. Even his eyes appeared turquoise as he glanced between my wife and me.

“What happened to Morgan’s mother?” Gloria asked.

He took a deep breath and let it out as he turned on the air conditioner. “It looks like she fell and hit her head on the corner of the coffee table, lost consciousness, and bled out. But we’re not ruling it an accident until the medical examiner has had a chance to perform an autopsy.”

“Is that really necessary?” I asked, feeling my shirt sticking to my back against the plastic seat cover.

“I’m afraid so; he’s already taken her body. Because your mother didn’t die naturally and didn’t die witnessed, it moves her death into the category of unexpected or unexplained, which is somewhat suspicious. Do you happen to know if she had a medical condition that might have affected her balance or caused her to pass out?”

It had never crossed my mind that my mother could possibly have been murdered.

“No,” Gloria said, “she was healthy as a horse.”

“How about an excessive use of alcohol?” he asked, as the first blast of cool air whooshed from the vents.

“My mother doesn’t drink,” I said, a bit too defensively, “never has.”

His eyes narrowed as he looked at me. “How about enemies, was there anyone you know who might want to harm her?”

“Everyone loved Jenny,” Gloria said, placing a warm hand on the top of my thigh and gently patting. “She would give anyone who needed it the shirt off her back. We couldn’t go anywhere that she wouldn’t drop a few dollars into some homeless person’s hand or offer to buy them a meal.”

I looked at her askance.

Meadows closed his door and indicated for us to do likewise. “Did she ever offer to bring them home? Pay them to work around the house?”

“She may have been charitable, Detective,” I said, as Gloria and I simultaneously closed our doors, “but she wasn’t foolish. What makes you ask?”

“Even though there was no sign of a break-in, and nothing seems out of place except for the broken coffee table, we still have to ask. Nevertheless, we’d like you to get back to us after you’ve had time to look things over.”

“That may take a while,” Gloria said. “We don’t get over here as often as we should. Jenny may have gotten rid of some of her things and I’m sure she wouldn’t have checked with us first.”

“I’m more concerned with items that could be easily pawned or sold; jewelry, electronics, coin collections, things like that,” he said, as the door to Mom’s townhouse opened and the two investigators walked out carrying toolboxes and several brown paper bags stapled at the top. The car was just beginning to cool off.

CHAPTER THREE

Over the years many of my friends have lost parents to heart failure or cancer, while others watched the ravages of Alzheimer’s slowly steal them away. I suppose I was lucky because Mom was vibrant and healthy. Although she sometimes kidded about living long enough to gracefully don the mantle of eccentricity, others thought her a curmudgeonly old woman with no sense of humor. But her mind never faltered. I loved the way she’d raise eyebrows with comments such as, “The First Amendment was ratified to protect us from Republicans and the Second to protect us from the Democrats.” It was an endearing trait that brought us closer together, even throughout my teenage years. I’m sure she would have injected just the right amount of cynicism into the present situation to distance us all from the pain of her death.

Mom’s place was just as I remembered when we stepped through the doorway; I half expected her to waltz out of the kitchen and greet us with a tray of fresh-baked cookies and tall glasses of ice-cold milk. I swallowed hard and asked Gloria where she thought we should begin?

She stepped by my side, pulled a tissue from her purse, and handed it to me. “Detective Meadows said the medical examiner will be releasing her body within seventy-two hours. Now would probably be a good time to make the necessary funeral arrangements and call Barbara and the kids.”

My sister didn’t have the capacity or wherewithal to get herself to Sedona before then anyway. So, after wiping my eyes and blowing my nose I contacted a travel agent, made reservations, and paid for her ticket. I then called St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church and talked to Mom’s priest before calling Barbara, hoping that maybe at 4:30 in the afternoon I’d catch her sober. However, my sister lived in Brunswick, Maine and my mistake was not taking the different time zones into account. At 7:30 p.m. her cocktail hour was well underway.

Ice clinked against glass as she answered the phone, slurping at whatever was in the tumbler and stumbling over her words. A mournful, guttural sound emanated through the telephone after I told her Mom was dead.

“Noooo.” She wailed. “No. No. No!”

I tried to make her understand that all she had to do was get to the airport in Portland by 10 o’clock the day after tomorrow and I would pick her up in Phoenix. It was difficult to know for certain whether or not I’d gotten through and resigned myself to the fact that I wouldn’t know until the plane arrived. Undoubtedly Barbara would drink herself to sleep the next two nights and I could only hope that she would wake in time to catch the mid-morning flight on Tuesday. Even hungover she should be able to call a cab and it was the one arrangement I’d left up to her.

I couldn’t get through to Bobby who’d told me that he was planning on going camping over the long weekend in Hole-in-the-Wall Campground near Essex, California, which was in the Mojave Desert about 230 miles east of Los Angeles. So, I doubted that he had cellphone service. My daughter, Debby, and her family lived in Palm Springs where, according to the Zagat Guide for Southern California, they owned one of the ten best restaurants. My timing wasn’t much better when I reached her as they were busy prepping for the evening meal.

“Hello kitten,” I said, after one of the waitresses who’d answered the phone found her and told her who was calling.

“What’s the matter, Dad?”

“I’ve got some bad news. How could you tell?”

“By your voice and… you also never call at this time of day. What’s wrong?”

There was no sense beating around the bush so I just came out and said, “Your grandmother Jenny has passed away.”

“Oh, no; where are you?”

“At her place; your mother and I drove over this afternoon. The police were here and have taken her body in for an autopsy.”

“Oh, good heavens; did someone kill her?”

“They don’t really know, but I don’t think so. It looks like she fell and hit her head on the coffee table and bled to death before she regained consciousness.”

“That’s horrible. What can I do?”

“I’d like you to be able to come over for the funeral on Wednesday if you can.”

“Certainly, I’ll bring Little Morgan with me, but I doubt that Bud will be able to make it.”

“That’s fine,” I said. I couldn’t remember if they’d actually ever met anyway. “See if you can get hold of your brother. He said he was going camping in the Mojave Desert this weekend and I’ve been unable to contact him.”

“Probably doesn’t have cell service, but I’ll keep trying.”

*  *  *  *

By the time I’d finished with my phone calls I felt wrung out and didn’t feel like doing one more thing. Detective Meadows would just have to wait for us to inventory Mom’s things over the weekend. I handed Gloria the keys and she drove us to Poco Diablo Resort where we regularly stayed when visiting Mom. After checking in we went to the local Bar & Grill for dinner. Gloria had a Cobb Salad. I ordered Pan Seared Salmon and a bottle of beer. Gloria glanced at me with disapproval, which wasn’t necessary. I felt guilty enough stepping off the wagon after 10 years.

When we returned to our room the message light was blinking on the resort phone. I called the desk and was informed my daughter had phoned with an emergency and needed me to return her call.

The background noise in the restaurant kitchen was annoying as I listened to Debby explain how Bobby had totaled his car early that morning and was in the Needles City Jail after being arrested for driving under the influence.

“He called me after I talked to you; didn’t want you to know.”

“Is he okay?”

“Of course he’s not okay, Dad, he’s in jail.”

“I mean, was he injured in the accident?”

“He said he got a few stitches in his hand and bumped his head, but couldn’t tell if it hurt from the accident or beating it against the wall withdrawing from the heroin.”

“Heroin! What the hell, Debby, what the hell?”

“I know Dad. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but somebody had to. He’s been using for a few months now—nothing serious, just chipping—but had it under control. He just hadn’t worked up the courage to ask you for help.”

“Did you tell him about Mom?”

“His five-minute call ended before I got the chance.”

I couldn’t breathe and handed the phone to Gloria. This was my fault; I should have noticed that he was developing a substance abuse disorder with his increased drinking. I’d been there myself. But heroin; there’s no way I could ever have imagined that.

“We’ll go see him tomorrow,” Gloria said, just before hanging up. She turned to me, her eyes filled with tears.

“What about Mom?” I asked.

“Jenny’s dead, Morgan, Bobby isn’t. We need to see if we can help him and let him know about his grandmother. They were very close and he doesn’t deserve to find out about it over the phone or, worse yet, in a letter. We can always reschedule the funeral.”

*  *  *  *

Gloria had gone on line and looked up inmate visitation requirements for the Needles City Jail, while I went for a run to relieve the stress. Inmates were allowed visitors from 1:00 p.m. to 3:30 p.m. and we dressed accordingly before heading out the next morning. Needles was close to a four hour drive from Sedona; 30 miles up I-17 N to Flagstaff, which was a few miles more than taking 89A, but five minutes faster, and then 210 miles on I-40 W. We got an early start, stopping for breakfast at the Roadkill Café & OK Saloon in Seligman about two hours later. Unless the next town was more than half an hour down the road, or there was nothing else around, Gloria and I rarely ate in chain restaurants or fast-food diners and were seldom disappointed. I gave the Roadkill Café four out of five stars.

Arriving in Needles we got off the Interstate at the J Street exit, which was part of historic US 66. Three blocks later I pulled into the San Bernardino County Sheriff’s Department parking lot at quarter to one. Perfect timing, I thought, as I locked all our personal belongings in the interior trunk. The entryway was far more inviting than what I feared awaited us inside as we approached the double glass doors.

The Desk Sergeant checked our photo ID’s and told us that our son had been involved in a motor vehicle accident going the wrong way on the Interstate and high on alcohol and drugs. He hadn’t been badly hurt but, unfortunately, the occupant of the other car hadn’t fared as well. The driver had been pinned inside her vehicle and had to wait two hours before emergency responders could free her using the Jaws of Life. She’d experienced a lot of blood loss from internal organ damage and was still in critical condition at the Colorado River Medical Center down the block.

“The arresting officer gave your son a Field Sobriety Check at the scene, which he failed, and then a breath test, which he also failed. After that he took him into custody and brought him to have his hand stitched up and a blood sample drawn; it’ll take a few days to get the results back. Meanwhile, the prosecutor is deciding whether to charge him with a misdemeanor or felony DUI based on the victim’s condition.”

“Oh, good grief,” Gloria said. “When can we see him?”