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.
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