Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3 • Part 4 • Part 5 • Part 6
Part 7
Whiz heard about the failed attempt to steal the Mitchell Map as soon as she awoke the next morning. The town’s people were abuzz with talk. Conversation was so hot it was as if someone had dropped a package of firecrackers into the center of Urbanna.
Hysteria was the only word to describe the lunch counter conversation at the drugstore that week. The major gist was a “local” had tried to pull off the Mitchell Map heist. But who could have done such a dire thing? No evidence was found at the site of the crime. Yet everyone had an idea of a suspicious someone that had done the foul deed but none of the conjecture in any way corresponded to any facts.
The morning after the attempted heist, Merrypen was wild with excitement. “Someone jumped the gun on my great plot!” she complained to the Stickler and Whiz over breakfast. “Can you believe that? But the culprit failed to get the map! My book has been ruined before I have even published it!”
“Agreed, Mother,” said Whiz. “The perfect plot must not have been so perfect after all. I think you should give up on your book now that someone actually did decide to steal the map and failed.”
Merrypen agreed. “Well, maybe I could write about an illicit love affair in town. Except for one thing … I would never be able to write about sex. I have my principles!” she added, a comment that stopped all conversation.
“I know! I’ll write a dog story!” Merrypen suggested. “How about the Super Dog of Urbanna! A dog that rescues a little boy that falls off a boat and the dog swims out to save him!”
Whiz laughed. “That sounds like a great plot for your next book, Mother!” She sighed in relief. Now maybe all this nonsense that she herself had initiated would blow over.
Merrypen swallowed the last few drops of her English breakfast tea and frowned. “Yet something very interesting was happening with my main character in my first crime story. He’s sorry he stole the Mitchell Map! He has decided to turn himself in!”
“What? What?” shouted Whiz. “I thought you were giving up on your heist book! Besides, you are the author! You are in control of your characters! Someone who writes a crime story can’t have the perpetrator feel sorry about his crime and turn himself in!”
Merrypen looked horrified. “Well!” she sniffed indignantly. “I’ll have you know MY characters have total free will! They do what they want to do! Let it be said that Merrypen never forces her characters in a book to do anything they don’t want to do!”
“That’s crazy, Mother! Of course, the author is in charge of her characters! Anyway, forget it! Your crime story is dead. Who wants to read a crime story with a perpetrator who decides to turn himself in!”
Thus, Whiz got through the week by dribs and drabs but by the following Sunday she decided to take a break from all the madness she had caused and leave town. It was a good time to visit her beloved Aunt Pigtail, who lived in Charleston, S.C., during the winter. After all, the real estate business was dead as the trees in February so why not have a nice vacation?
She hopped into her Jag and headed south. In just eight hours she was far away from the muddle in Urbanna where she could recover from last week’s trauma.
Meanwhile Snark was not having a great life on his newly named sloop, “Hawk.” He kept having nightmarish reruns of his fiasco heist and his narrow escape.
What had gone wrong? Just about everything. But he now realized the scheme was harebrained from the start. In the first place, the map was much too big for a quick heist and how was he going to store it? That fool woman, Whiz, had him snatching the map, rolling it up and shoving it up his mast! What kind of a nut scheme was that? How would anyone be able to shove anything up in his mast? He must have been crazy to even listen to her plan let alone try to pull it off. He should have known better.
Truer words were never spoken but the ego of man is fragile and Snark had unfortunately let his pride get caught up in his ex-girlfriend’s so called joke. He felt like a big fool, not an especially pleasant sensation for a man like Snark.
He felt sorry for the damage he had done to the museum and the way he had treated the town of Urbanna. He wished he could think of a way to apologize for what he had done but at the same time, not have to pay any consequences for his actions. It’s one thing to say you are sorry but quite another to face the consequences for one’s actions.
And even worse it rained all week, day and night as he had motored down the Intracoastal and every item on the Hawk was damp. The scenery in February was not stimulating, to say the least, and he was sick of canned food. He yearned for a cold beer.
He wanted to pull into port as soon as he felt safe enough to do so. He would recharge his cell phone, do laundry, get some dry clothes on and especially get a steak dinner and a few stiff drinks under his belt.
Snark pulled out his chart and checked where he was. Charleston was just ahead. He might pull into the Ashley River and find a marina he could hole up at for a week or so. Maybe the infernal rain would stop and the sun would come out. He could rest, restock provisions and do some chores. Maybe he could figure out a painless way to return to Urbanna and own up to what he had done.
There was a new marina off the Charleston Hotel close to the historic French Quarter that would do nicely. Maybe that city had a valuable map he could steal and collect some money from insurance. He laughed at the thought. He had the distinct feeling his days as an outlaw were over. Too much stress and not enough fun.
Life is too short to suffer any more than we have to, he said aloud to any fish that happened to be swimming by. That was about the extent of deep philosophy from Snark. And even that had stretched his brain to the point of sending painful streaks throughout his head.
Nothing a few drinks couldn’t fix and the sooner the better. Thus spake Snark.
