The Prologue of My Latest Manuscript: Gold Fever by Joan Donaldson-Yarmey

                                              Gold Fever 

 

 

          Prologue

 

             October 23, 1960

 

     It was late afternoon on a cold autumn day. The wind blew through the trees, snatching the few dead leaves left on the branches and swirling them through the air. Heavy dark clouds hung low over the mountains, threatening snow. Two men grunted as they carried a blanket‑wrapped body through the green cedars and pines and the already bare poplar trees. They were hunched down in their coats, their hats pulled tight on their heads. They turned their faces away from the wind.

     "This is a good spot," the man in the lead said. He was tall and gaunt, and with a three days growth of whiskers appeared older than his twenty-four years.
     The second man was younger than the first, hardly more than a boy. He didn’t answer.
     They stopped and roughly dropped their bundle on the ground in a small meadow. Over the sound of the wind they could hear the sound of a waterfall made by a small creek dropping over the edge of a nearby cliff.
     “Let’s get this done,” the first man said gruffly.
     The men unhooked their shovels which had been tied to their backs. During the summer the small meadow was knee deep in ferns, flowers, and small bush as were all the meadows in the region. The growth suggested a plentiful, rich, nutritious soil. But instead, of easy digging, their shovels clanged continuously against rock as they tried to remove the sparse layer of dirt. It was the occasional bountiful rains of the British Columbia summer that kept the vegetation alive.
     They worked silently. The young man occasionally snuck a quick glance at the covered body waiting to be buried. Many times they had to stop and lift out a rock before they could continue. Digging in the mountain side for gold was never easy, digging a grave was even harder.
     Despite the cold day and the wind, the older man was soon sweating. He stopped and removed his coat, throwing it beside the body.
     “We shouldn’t be doing this,” the younger man said. “If it was an accident like you said, we should tell the police.”
     “They won’t believe us that he fell and hit his head on a rock. They’ll think we murdered him for the gold and send us both to prison. Then who would look after your mother?”
     “But he has a family.”
     “And we would have to give them his share of the gold. We have more of a right than they do. We did most of the work.”
     “B… but we’d agreed, the three of us, to divide the gold equally.”
     "Shut up and keep digging.”
     They resumed chipping away at the rock and dirt. Eventually the older man stopped. He looked at the depth of the hole and then over at the body. "That’s good enough. We’ve got enough dirt to cover him." He dropped his shovel on the ground beside the makeshift grave and stepped out.
     The younger man followed suit. They knelt down beside the body. The older man lifted the corner of the blanket and took one last look at the face of the dead person.
     “Nice guy but too trusting.” He let the blanket fall and they rolled the body into the grave. They each grabbed their shovels and began filling in the hole.
     "Just fill it in 'til its level with the ground."
     "What about the rest of the dirt?" asked the younger man.
     "We'll just spread it around."
     “Are we putting rocks on top to keep the animals away?”
     “No, throw them into the bush.”
     "What about a marker?"
     "Don’t be stupid. We don’t need anyone finding it.”
     What little dirt was left they scattered in the weeds. The younger man tossed the rocks near the edge of the bush. The older man pulled a few dead ferns and flowers and stuck them in the darker, fresh dirt trying to make it blend in with the rest of the area.
     "Do you want to say a few words?" asked the younger man. They had finished and were looking down at the almost unnoticeable grave. The wind had increased and the older man had put his coat back on. Night was rapidly falling.
     "There’s nothing to say.”
     The younger man looked down at the grave. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “This isn’t right.”
     The older man's anger was immediate. He jumped at the younger man grabbing the front of his coat and pulling his face close.
     “Are you starting to go soft on me? Do I have to shut you up?”
     The younger’s eyes widened. “No, no,” he said, fear in his voice.
     “Don't you ever tell anybody," the older man said through clenched teeth. He pulled the younger man closer until their noses almost touched. "Do you understand? Nobody. Ever."
     The younger man nodded as best he could. "Nobody," he whispered.
     "Ever."
     "Ever."
     "Promise me."
     The younger man hesitated and the older man shook him until his head flopped back and forth.
     "Promise me."
     "I promise."
     The older man stared into his eyes then, apparently satisfied, let him go with a shove. He gave one last glance at the rectangle then picked up his shovel and walked away.
     The younger man looked down at the grave then quickly followed the other man.
     Back at their large canvas tent, which had been pitched on a high bank overlooking the Salmo River, the older man began packing his few clothes into his duffel bag.
     "What are you doing?" the younger one asked.
     "I'm taking leaving here first thing tomorrow."
     "What about me? Can I come with you?"
     "Nope."
     "Why not?" There was desperation in his voice.
     "Because I've got no time to look after you. Go back to Fruitvale and your Ma or go to work in the smelter in Trail.” The man tossed a small bag at him. “Here’s your share of the gold. It will keep you going until you make up your mind."
     "I don't know anything about working in the smelter."
     "I’m leaving this tent. Stay here if you want or find something else to do because you aren't coming with me." The man threw his duffel bag on his bed then took a step towards the younger man. He glared down at him. “If you ever break your promise I’ll come back and kill you and your Ma and any other family you have. You understand? Even if it’s ten, twenty years from now.”
     The younger man quickly nodded.
     The older man dropped down beside his duffel bag on the bed and turned his back to the younger one.
     After a few minutes, the younger man laid down on his bunk. He clasped his hands behind his head and stared at the sloping ceiling until it was too dark to see.
     Later that night when the storm had ended and the moon was high in the sky, a shadow crept silently out of the tent and worked his way through the trees to the small clearing. On the way he broke two branches off a tree and bound them together with some string. The clouds had dispersed and the moon was full and bright. Although it had only been a few hours since they had dug the grave, he already had a hard time locating it. When he at last found the right spot, he plunged the cross into the ground as far as he could, then took a rock and pounded it in further. He gathered the rocks they had thrown aside and piled them on the grave. Then he stood for a few minutes in the moonlight and gazed down at the grave.
     Finally, with a sigh, he silently left the small clearing. Instead of heading back to the tent, he started walking down the road. He’d been scared of being killed himself so he’d pretended he wanted to stay with the other man, acting as if he trusted him. But now he wanted to get as far away from him as possible and never see him again.

The Travelling Detective Series
Illegally Dead
The Only Shadow In The House
Whistler's Murder
http://thetravellingdetectiveseries.blogspot.com/

 

GRIPPING SUSPENSE BY RITA KARNOPP

Today’s reader is savvy and knowledgeable.  I believe this is the reason for the rise in the suspense genre.  Complex characters and shocking plots grab the reader tight, unwilling to let go until the very end.  Conflict advances and drives the plot into an unpredictable story that leaves us exhausted – yet satisfied.

Suspense is the aphrodisiac that keeps readers turning those pages.  So how do you create a gripping suspenseful story that leaves everyone talking?  By creating characters the reader cares about while giving conflict, tension, pacing and clever foreshadowing.  

Create situations where your reader is curious about what’s coming next.  This curiosity builds suspense and a good writer will make it flow naturally.  There are many ways to create suspense:

·         By withholding information from the reader

·         By withholding information from the main characters

·         By telling the story from the villain’s POV – withholding from main characters

·         By the main character knowing who the killer is – but he/she has to prove it

·         Maybe there’s more than one killer

·         The options are endless as are plots.

Most writers know who the killer is . . . oh, we may be surprised now and then, but most likely we have a good idea who we believe did the dead.  You could let the reader know right away – but if you’re like me – I love guessing.

Keeping the killer a mystery to the main characters works so well, it’s the most common plot.  Like I just said, we love guessing.  I want to dissect all the evidence, evaluate the characters, apply common sense, and finally draw my own conclusion and hope I guessed who dun it!

Writing the suspense can be tricky . . . you need to foreshadow along the way just enough so the reader realizes they could have figured it out – but failed to take that vital bit of information seriously. 

So what should you avoid when writing suspense?  I think a prolog is a killer.  I hate them to be honest.  Whatever you need your reader to learn about a character should be fed in small doses.  Make sure it’s important and ameliorates the plot so the reader will understand the character’s motive and why he reacts/behaves in certain conditions or anxious situations.

Intensity is the key to gripping your reader and not letting go.  It speeds up the momentum and the writer must increase the awareness with each new chapter until it climaxes at the end.  Never let this suspenseful action slow . . . or your reader will lose interest.

Suspenseful stories also revolve around relationships, usually love interests, but that can’t realistically interrupt the flow of the intensity.  Don’t have your hero and heroine chasing down a possible killer in an old mine shaft, then have them suddenly rolling on the ground in a passionate interlude, then get back to the chase.  I know – we’ve read it before and doesn’t it just annoy the crap out of you?  It does me.

 

Keep in mind if your characters are in danger and dealing with a killer – then we have to be realistic.  Think it through and ask yourself, “Would a couple really stop in the middle of a chase, have a quickie, then resume the chase?”  This might be their only chance to catch the killer.  Your reader would probably scream, “What are you doing?  You’ve almost caught him!  Put your pants back on and be real.”  You must create believable scenes so your readers don’t question what’s happening. 

In writing suspense, emotion is what gets your reader invested in the story.  In knowing the characters, the reader will either pull for them or become anxious for them to get their due castigations.  

Keep the emotion high so the reader understands the importance of the situation.   It’s the emotion that motivates us, what dictates how we react, and controls our decisions.  And, I’ll say it again, “Suspense is the aphrodisiac that keeps readers turning those pages.”  

Also find Rita at:

Website: http://ritakarnopp.com
Facebook: rita.karnopp@facebook.comBlog: http://mizging.blogspot.com/
Contact her at  ritakarnopp@bresnan.net

MY THREE-LEGGED STOOL OF WRITING

MY THREE-LEGGED STOOL OF WRITING by Karla Stover

Puget Sound has a lot of mystery writers—writing is a good thing to do when it rains—and, for years, I went to meetings of the Mystery Writers of America. They were well-attended and exciting. Then, one of the writers decided people who hadn’t been published by MWA-approved-publishers should be banned. Now, if 20 people attend, it’s a good turnout. However, during the heyday of smooshing with Ann Rule and Earl Emerson, I learned about the three-legged stool:  characters, setting, and action, and giving equal space to each. 

I am currently editing Tahuya Daze (ta-who-ya) the second of my Puget Sound Mysteries, which takes place on Hood Canal. At the book’s beginning, the heroine, Mercedes, comments on madrona trees. They’re unique to the Pacific Northwest. Supposedly, Captain George Vancouver thought their color was like that of strawberries, but then, he’d been at sea for a long time.

Goeducks are also indigenous here. Halfway through the book, Mercedes goes over to the Skokomish Indian Reservation and sees one of these. For those interested, they’re very hard to dig and the skin peels off the neck. (Not to be crude, but it is similar to removing a condom). Ground up goeduck necks and breasts make great chowder. On the TV show, dirty Jobs, Mike Rowe visited a goeduck farm and dug one up. Sadly, he broke its shell, a big no-no.

Since my book takes place in July, my husband and I have been photographing. When Mercedes is captured by the bad guy and forced to walk through some clear-cut land on the hills above the canal.

I remember reading Phyllis Whitney’s books, each of  which took place in a different country. As someone on Goodreads wrote, “Her novels are set in interesting locales that often become a character themselves.”

Not everyone in my critique group likes the three-legged stool: too many people and too much physical “stuff”. I, however, want a sense of place and an opportunity to know the characters. Aren’t well all lucky there’s no right answer?

I tried very hard to make this blog pretty and to have the photographs next to the appropriate paragraph. Unfortunately, it didn't work.  Thanks for any comments you care to make. Karla