Showing posts with label Sandia Mountain. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sandia Mountain. Show all posts

Thursday, August 29, 2019

A Preview of The Voxlightner Scandal


dontravis.com blog post #352

Maria Fanning, Artist
I notice this is the 352nd blog post. If my math is correct, that represents ten straight years of blogging at dontravis.com. In fact, it’s longer than that, since I did not number the earliest blogs and I missed a few weeks’ worth of blogging when I was in the hospital following back surgery a few years ago.

As I’ve announced repeatedly, Dreamspinner Press has announced a publication date of November 19 for the latest BJ Vinson mystery novel. So I’d like to give you one more look at The Voxlightner Scandal before publication. I’ve chosen the middle of Chapter 4 for the excerpt.

*****
THE VOXLIGHTNER SCANDAL

The Charlie Weeks part of Vinson and Weeks, Confidential Investigators was involved in another assignment, so Paul volunteered to help me go through Belhaven’s appointment books. We settled down at the table in the corner of my office, where we started with the newest and worked backward. APD found no diary, but Pierce had made comments in his appointment books, virtually rendering them into a journal.
I quickly found the note that had insinuated itself into my memory. On Monday, January 10, of this year Belhaven circled a comment in red ink: Meter readings are key! That’s what he meant. Okay, what meter readings? And who is the “he” Belhaven referenced. I alerted Paul to watch for any notation referencing meter readings.
When one does not know what one is looking for when reviewing nine years of another man’s hen scratchings, the process grows tedious and boring rather quickly. At times my eyes glazed over, causing me to go back and review a page or two all over again. A chink in Paul’s investigative armor appeared when he all too readily bailed on me when Roy Guerra called and invited us to accompany him on an interview with the AFD arson supervisor. I recognized Paul’d had his fill of donkey work for the day—his disco leg had jiggled for the last half hour—and agreed he should go with Roy while I kept at the drudge work. Despite the feeling I was searching for a raindrop in a drought, there was something here, and I was determined to find it.
Pierce Belhaven wrote in a precise hand except when he was tired. The morning notations were clear, but as the day wore on, his writing became more difficult to read. He apparently possessed an acerbic mind. After some of his appointments, he categorized a certain individual or individuals with either gushing or caustic comments. He also changed his mind about some of his associates, as one time they would be a “fine fellow” and at others a “stodgy clod.”
I found one entry referencing Paul and some issue at SouthWest Writers. I smiled at his characterization: A toothsome handful! If the old boy only knew.
By the time Paul returned with Roy, I was down to the last couple of books without finding much of interest. The unread books covered the years 2003 and 2004, the period when the scandal occurred. Nonetheless I was wiped out and gratefully put aside the examination of the appointment-cum-diary books to hear the results of their interview with Lanny Johnson, the AFD lieutenant in charge of arson.
“Didn’t learn much,’ Roy said as he claimed a chair in front of my desk. “The fire was deliberately set using book matches tossed on Belhaven’s gasoline-soaked clothing.”
“Matches? Plural?”
“Yep. Ignited a whole book of them and tossed them on the body. Gasoline caught and toasted Belhaven but didn’t do much damage to the garage.”
“How much gasoline was used?” I asked.
“Enough to cover the body,” Paul said.
“Anything else on or around the body?”
“Just the remnants of a burned-up rag. You know, like mechanics use to wipe their hands on. Wasn’t much of it left.”
I rubbed my tired eyes and sat back in my chair.
Paul read me pretty well. “What are you thinking, Vince?”
Roy scowled. “What’s with this Vince business? I thought everybody called you BJ.”
“There are always contrarians,” I replied, unwilling to explain it was a pet name. “Why the arson charade?”
“Trying to make Belhaven’s death look like an accident,” the detective responded.
“Obviously. But why? Roy, did Belhaven have life insurance?”
He nodded. “Multiple policies, I understand.”
“Who are the beneficiaries?”
“The son and daughter. Two-point-five mil each.”
“Which probably contain double-indemnity clauses in case of accidental death. This is just speculation of course. Have to see the actual policies to know my premise holds water.”
“I get it,” Paul said. “The arson was to make it look like an accident.”
“How old were the policies, Roy?”
“Haven’t viewed them yet, but I understand they have gray hair.”
“Have you found the murder weapon?”
“Nothing in the garage looks plausible. Office of the Medical Investigator says it was probably metal, although the condition of the corpse makes that iffy.”
“Something like a wrench?” Paul asked.
“Yeah. Or an aluminum bat. And we didn’t find either one of those. Found some tools in a shed at the back, but none of them tested positive.”
“Was the skin broken on his head? Enough so there was blood?”
“Couldn’t say for sure… you know, because of the fire. No obvious evidence of it.”
After another fifteen minutes of hashing and rehashing the situation, Roy took his leave while Paul and I tackled the appointment books again. Paul picked up the blue-clad volume for 2003. Within five minutes he let out an “Aha!”
“What?” I asked.
“You said Pierce mentioned readings? I got meter readings.”
He shoved his book over to me. Under August 2003 Belhaven had made a terse comment: May-1800 kWhs; June-1825 kWhs; July-1829 kWhs. What the hell is up?
I took kWhs to be kilowatt hours. There was no name or meter number or address, but the numbers had been significant enough to catch Belhaven’s attention. Why? Had his responsibilities involved monitoring accounts to watch for unusual readings? Did he keep an eye on friends or family? Was this part of his job, or was he simply a snoop?
I got up from the table and went to my computer where I pulled up the New Mexico Power and Light bills for my home. After reviewing a number of monthly invoices for the past year, I reached the following conclusions: my average usage was around 700 kWhs and according to the utility company, the average household usage was around 650 kWhs. Belhaven spotted someone using around three times the voltage for a period of three months. Given the readings were spotlighted in his journal, he clearly believed the level of usage was unusual, and he knew the individual the meter belonged to. The penned comment “What the hell is up?” led me to that conclusion.
I picked up the phone, dialed, and argued my way through a secretary to speak to an old golfing buddy of mine. He agreed to a meet.



*****

I hope you found BJ’s latest mystery to be interesting. In Voxlightner, BJ finds himself and Paul the targets of an unknown killer… involving some close shaves.

Dreamspinner’s publishing date for my next BJ Vinson book, The Voxlightner Scandal, is November 19, 2019. A buy link follows:  http://www.dsppublications.com/books/upcoming-releases-c

Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say, so say it!

My personal links: (Note the change in the Email address because I’m still getting remarks on the old dontravis21@gmail.com. PLEASE DON’T USE THAT ONE.)
                                                                                                    
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Twitter: @dontravis3

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See you next week.

Don

New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.


Thursday, July 23, 2015

MIRIAM, MIRIAM QUITE CONTRARIUM

This week, lets try some short fiction again. Something light I wrote without any deep meaning. Just for enjoyment.

*****
MIRIAM, MIRIAM QUITE CONTRARIUM
I loved the name Miriam. The genesis of today’s Mary or Maria, it appeared in the first book of the Bible – Genesis, appropriately – as the name of the older sister of Moses. Etymologists cited the name as ancient Hebrew, but disagreed as to its root. Some said the word derived from marar, Egyptian for beloved. Others cited the name’s origin as mara, a word that meant something quite different: rebellious, disobedient.
It is quite possible I fell in love with Miriam’s name before I fell in love with her.
I first laid eyes on the attractive brunette six months ago when I joined a table of friends at a local watering hole called the Oak Barrel in the northeast heights area of Albuquerque. I walked up just in time to hear a spirited rejoinder by a pretty woman with truly lovely emerald-green eyes tell George Hardesty, who can sometimes be an obnoxious ass, that her name was Miriam, not Mary.
“Miriam, Mary, what’s the difference?”
I butted in. “Respect, George. That’s the difference. The lady says her name’s Miriam, then you should show a little respect.” I leaned over the table. “Miriam, my name’s Henry. Henry Leatherton.”
The pretty stranger held out a delicate hand. Her beautiful eyes sparkled with mischief. “Then you won’t mind if I call you Hank.”
From that moment on, no one else at the table mattered. I ended up taking Miriam home that evening. She’d ridden to the pub with a friend, so we didn’t have to worry about a spare car. No kiss, no hug, no endearments of any kind occurred that night, but it was clear we were simpatico. Before the month was out, Henry and Miriam were an item. A week after that, we first made love.
I cannot possibly describe the event. It was earth-moving, stupendous, a totally new experience although not the first for either of us. It was exhausting, exhilarating, frightening. Frightening because by the end, I was certain I would die of a heart attack. A hundred heartbeats later, I was trying to figure how soon I could climb that mountain again.
And it proved, at least to my satisfaction, the root of her beautiful name derived from the Egyptian word, marar … or beloved.
On the day we went on a picnic on Sandia Peak, I parked in a public area on the lower slopes, threw a black, merlot-trimmed wine tote over my left shoulder, hefted the basket of packed food, and started up an easy, well-traveled trail. My destination was a secluded redwood table with a nice view about a mile ahead of us.
A gentle west wind blew out of a clear summer sky and swept up the slope of the mountain, playing noisily in swaying tree branches, disturbing a pair of quarrelsome squirrels, and raising the sharp scent of evergreen resin. At this altitude, the sun’s bite wasn’t bad, although I felt sweat pop out on my scalp beneath a visored ball cap. I kept a wary eye out as I walked with Miriam on my heels. Well-traveled or not, we humans still share these mountains with wild critters, not the least aggressive of which were the mountain sheep that populate the place. But they were generally up near the peak and shouldn’t be a problem.
“Hank.”
I heard Miriam’s call from behind me and turned to find her halted at a side trail that led down into a canyon.
“Let’s go this way.”
“It’s a tougher climb. Steeper. Footing’s not as good. Anyway, I want to show you the view up ahead. It’s gorgeous.”
“I want to go this way. We’ll go to yours later.”
“I don’t think …”
But she was gone. Disappeared down the side trail.
“Stay on the pathway.”
I scrambled back down the hill in an effort to reach her, but by the time I arrived at the side-trail, she was no longer in sight. I caught up with her two minutes later as she stood on a rock promontory and gazed out over a shallow but steep-sided canyon.
She slipped a slender arm around my waist as I halted beside her.“Isn’t it beautiful? I’ll bet your view isn’t better than this one.”
I glanced around. “No good place to spread out the lunch.”
“Who’s interested in food? If you’re tired of carrying it, just put it down and we’ll pick it up when we come back.”
“Come back? Where are we going? Besides, I don’t want to come back and find a bear munching on our liverwurst.”
Her laugh mirrored the sound of a golden gong. “Hah! I’ll bet if a bear wanted your basket, you’d hand it over quickly enough.” Without waiting for a response, she started down a faint, steeply graded pathway. “I want to see where this goes.”
“Wait! That’s too steep. You’ll –
She emitted a small yelp and disappeared from view. I dropped the basket – unmindful of glass and hard-boiled eggs – and rushed to where she’d disappeared.
Twelve or so feet below me, she was getting up off her pretty little rump and dusting off her jeans. She was on a small ledge with nowhere to go but down. She hadn’t chosen a path, just a graded drop-off leading to nowhere.
“Oh, Hank! I don’t know if I can get back up.”
“Don’t worry, fair lady. Hank Leatherton to the rescue.”
Her face closed down. “Don’t make jokes. Get me out of here.”
She didn’t have to be so curt. After all, she’s the one who got herself into this mess. After I warned her, too. She didn’t seem frightened standing on that narrow ledge, just petulant.
I tried lying on my stomach and reaching down to her. She was a petite woman of about five-foot-two, and although I had long arms, all we could manage was to touch fingertips. I’d have extended my belt to her … if I’d had one. But years ago, I’d gone to elastic-banded waists and discarded those annoying strips of leather.
I extended my legs over the edge, but she absolutely refused to climb up my back. Too afraid of slipping and falling backward into the canyon, she claimed.
Eventually, I ended up sliding down that same scary, scree-lined embankment that had gotten her into trouble to land beside her on the ledge.
“That’s what you should have done in the first place.”
I ground my teeth and left my retort unstated. I placed my back to the bluff face and cupped my hands. She put a dainty foot in my palms, grabbed my shoulders, and lifted herself up. She was amazingly light – in fact the food basket resting on the promontory above us had seemed heavy by comparison. However, she seemed a bit heftier when she grabbed my head, dislodging my favorite NY Yankees cap and sending it floating out into the ether as I lifted her with my arms until she stood on my shoulders.
“I can’t reach the top,” she complained. “You’ll have to lift me more.”
Without warning, she lifted one clodhopper and placed it on top of my head. Then she raised  the other foot so that  all half-ton of her was supported by my neck. As I grunted aloud and my spine creaked less audibly, I heard her say she couldn’t quite reach it yet. More to relieve the painful weight on my neck than for any other reason, I grabbed her ankles and shoved my arms straight over my head.
Miriam gave a little shriek and vanished from my sight. Startled, I glanced down, halfway expecting to see her tumbling into the void. Instead, I heard her delighted voice above me.
“I did it!”
I put a hand to the back of my neck and tentatively rotated my head. Beyond a click and a clack, everything seemed okay. Then I began exploring ways to extricate myself from the situation I’d – no, she’d -- gotten me into.
I saw no way out. Twelve feet straight up or fifty feet straight down. No, not straight. The cliff wall angled a bit. After a careful inspection revealed a series of small ledges, I made a decision.
“Miriam, no way I can climb, but I might be able to make my way down to the floor of the canyon.”
“No! Come up here. I don’t want to be left alone.”
“Just go back down the trail to the car. I’ll meet you there, but it’ll take me a lot longer going back this way. You’ll have to wait for me.”
“Hank, climb up here. I insist! What if that bear comes?”
“What bear?”
“The one you said wanted the picnic basket.”
“There isn’t a bear. Just walk back to the car.”
“Oh, all right!” I heard her stumble away.
Jeez, wasn’t she even going to wait to see if I got down safely? Screw it. I’d make it with or without her.
I reached the ledge below me in a semi-controlled fall. Actually, I skied on a jumble of loose stones, almost pitching over into the void when I came to an abrupt halt on solid rock. I managed to restore my balance by waving my arms wildly. Or perhaps recovered despite my flailing arms. I repeated the process twice more without too much difficulty. Perhaps it was overconfidence or just kismet, but on the last fifteen-foot slalom, I twisted my left ankle and tumbled onto my face as I hit the bottom of the canyon. 
           After spitting out pebbles and dirt, I tried to stand, but promptly fell over again. My left ankle wouldn’t support my weight. I examined the injured joint. It didn’t seem to be broken but was badly sprained. I managed to stand and take a couple of lurching steps. I didn’t fall again, but it was painful going. As I hobbled down the rough, uneven floor of the canyon wondering if I would make the two miles back to the car, I had another thought.
Would Miriam take the food basket back to the car with her? I shook my head and winced from a sore neck. It was too heavy for her. Oh, well, what’s a $64 Veranda Collection Willow Picnic Basket and a $50 Picnic Time Wine Country Tote in the total scheme of things? Plus cutlery and linen and food, of course. I hoped the bears would appreciate the feast.
A mile into my agonizing and ungainly trek, I reconsidered. Maybe the genesis of Miriam wasn’t the Egyptian marar, after all. Perhaps it was mara.

*****
A little longer than I wanted, but I hope you got a chuckle or two out of it. Or maybe a recollection from your past.

That’s it for this week. Thanks for reading. Be happy to hear from you.


New Posts are published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Sunday, August 5, 2012

Sandia Mountain…or the Crest…or the Peak

Sandia Mountain from the Rio Grande
When out-of-towners visit for the first time, they usually ask, “What is that big hunk of rock blocking Albuquerque’s growth on the east side?” I usually reply it is Albuquerque butting up against that big hunk of rock’s west side. The 15 to 17 mile length of 1.7 billion-year-old metamorphic rock they’re speaking of is Sandia Mountain. Or the Crest or the Peak to us locals.



Actually, there is both a crest and a peak. North Sandia Crest is the highest point at somewhere around 10,678 feet above sea level. It is crowned by TV and radio aerials and is the terminus of NM Highway 536. It has a gift shop and scenic lookout stations for visitors which give a view of some 11,000 square miles of territory, including a fine view of the 11,305-foot Mount Taylor 100 miles to the west. Taylor is known as Tsoodzil to the Navajos, who consider it one of the four sacred mountains marking the boundaries of Dinetah. The Acoma, Laguna, and Zuni peoples consider it sacred, as well. But that is another story.

The South Peak of Sandia Mountain—separated by a wide saddle from the Crest—is slightly lower, and is reached by Sandia Peak Tramway, which lifts riders some 4,000 feet in 15 minutes by means of two cars capable of carrying up to 50 individuals. One car arrives at the peak as the other arrives simultaneously at the base. The High Finance Restaurant sits near the upper tram station.

Sandia Wreathed in Clouds
The Peak is also the access to the upper ski area located on the east face of the mountain overlooking the Estancia Valley. The ski area has a vertical drop of 1,700 feet, 30 runs, and 200 skiable acres. There are four double chairlifts and a children’s ski school.

Sandia plays an important role in the climax of my mystery novel The Zozobra Incident. BJ Vinson, the Albuquerque PI who is the protagonist in the series, can tell you all about Sandia. If you haven’t caught on by now, he’s a dedicated history buff.

He would tell you Sandia is the Spanish word for watermelon. Some say they named the mountain that because of its reddish color at sunset. But he would also know there’s a story going around that the mountain is called that because the Spaniards, when they arrived, mistook the squash growing there for watermelons. Which story is true? Take your pick. The Tiwa speakers call it a name BJ can neither spell nor pronounce meaning something akin to “Where the Water Slides Down.” The Sandia Pueblo Indians (to whom the mountain is sacred) call it Bien Mur, Big Mountain. He would also know there are ruins of ancient pueblos such as Tijeras Pueblo and Pa-ako Pueblo on the mountain.

Sandia Mountain at Sunset
BJ would delight in telling you the mountain spans four Life Zones: the Upper Sonoran, the Transition, the Canadian, and the Hudsonian. He could also tell you a great deal about the flora and the fauna and give climatic details of each zone. The mountain is part of the Sandia-Manzano (Spanish word for apple) Range, with Tijeras (Spanish for scissors) Pass intersecting the two. The old Route 66 runs through the pass, although today it is known as I-40. The mountains are a fault block range uplifted some 10 million years ago when the Rio Grande Rift was formed. K-spar crystals in the Sandia granite give the mountain its distinct pink color.

Sandia Cave in Las Huertas Canyon on the northeast side of the range near Placitas was thought to be inhabited some 10,000 to 12,000 years ago by “Sandia Man,” although that cultural classification is no longer used. There are miles and miles of trails, including the seven-mile La Luz Trail from the bottom to the top (the third way of accessing the mountain…afoot). It has climbable formations with names like The Shield, The Needle, Muralia Grande, The Chimney, and many, many more. Bikers can pedal the paved road to the bottom of the ski area and take chairlifts to the Peak.

Sandia is a busy place, but it is vast enough to find solitude, if that is what you want.

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