If you haven't read Cuckoo Clock Caper yet, here is a sampling.
It's not Shakespeare, Binchy or Evonovich, but it is a fun read.
Fasten your seat belt and enjoy the ride.
Solow and I pounded the pavement around three turns in the road, made a left at the Hooley mailbox and trudged up Emmett’s long blacktopped driveway. We stopped beside the only standing remnant of his house, a giant river rock fireplace, and stood for a moment of complete silence. Various chunks of blackened walls leaned against each other on top of burnt timbers sprinkled with broken glass and melted hardware. The foul air was still, no birds sang, no sound came from the ridge where a long row of eucalyptus trees usually whispered in the breeze. Silently, turkey buzzards cut circles in the overly blue sky.
The string of eucalyptus trees behind my house stretched along the ridge, cutting through several properties including the Hooley backyard. The trees formed a line about two-hundred feet up the hill from the burnt homestead. Halfway between the ashes and the very tall eucalyptus was a scattering of oak trees, half a dozen young redwoods and a few Monterey pines. I hurried to keep up with Solow as he sniffed his way up the hill and howled when he came to an area of thick vegetation, mostly wild lilac, bottlebrush and Laurel. He circled the area, and then disappeared through a break in the matted foliage.
“Solow, come on boy, let’s go home.” There was no sign of him, so I squeezed through a narrow space between the bushes into an open area surrounding a cottage covered in grey shingles. The door was wide open and Solow had already entered the little cabin.
I stood in the doorway and called Solow. The place had a piney smell, like Mr. Hooley. Two multi-paned windows in the roof served as skylights, sending sunlight to a floor littered with cut logs. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I realized I was looking at a mixture of firewood for the potbellied stove, and wood that had been carved and painted. There were carved birds and animals as well as figures of people with smiling faces wearing colorful, old-world clothing.
“Solow, look at this mess! Looks like a giant cuckoo clock explosion.” Not wishing to fall on my face, I stood still in a sea of broken wood carvings––painted and unpainted. There were mallets, knives, chisels and clock parts scattered here and there. Two unscathed cuckoo clocks hung at a tilt on the opposite wall surrounded by dozens of empty hooks. I could only imagine how scary the explosion had been.