Precious Cargo

"What do you suppose he meant by that hon?" Kay asked, after Pye was out of the place.
"No idea. He acted a little weird earlier over that north woods business.
Maybe he thinks it's haunted or something, who knows."
"Are you going to call him from up there?"
"Sure, it can't hurt. Besides, I promised."

Even though it meant paying for another day, they slept in Sunday, telling Elizabeth not to wait on them for breakfast, opting for brunch over at the tavern.
Thanking Elizabeth for an enjoyable visit, they left late afternoon for their destination, allowing a few extra hours for any unforeseen delays.
Dan had supplied Eric with detailed directions and Kay had confirmed them on her laptop.
He also had the personal cell phone number of Willard Wellford Smythe, the buyer of the artwork, and one of the wealthiest men in Boston, if not the United States.
Mr. Smythe's home was in Cambridge, not far from Harvard Law, where he was an alumnus and benefactor.
As Eric negotiated the narrow lanes with low hanging limbs searching for the address, Kay was in awe of the stately mansions.
He found the residence easy enough, but noted there was absolutely no place to park without attracting attention.
He drove back out to a wider boulevard a few blocks away, where he noticed a small cafe, which appeared to be closed.
The parking lot would barely accomadate the six wheeler and they were getting stares from residents out on their Sunday strolls.
A city police car arrived within ten miutes. Two cops exited the vehicle and approached the truck from either side.
"I reckon we look dangerous." Eric quipped.
"Step out of the vehicle, sir." Cop #1 said, without so much as a trace of a smile. Eric complied wordlessly.
"A long way from Georgia, aren't you?" It came out sounding like jarja in the thick southie accent.
"Yes, sir, I reckon so." Eric answered, exaggerating his own accent.
"First of all, you are trespassing on private property. And we had complaints from concerned citizens of you disturbing the peace driving that truck through these neighborhoods.
This is not a commercial area. Since I am in such a good mood, I am giving you about ten seconds to vacate the premises.
Otherwise, I'm impounding this truck and locking you up."
Eric leaned back on the fender and grinned, causing the officer to become visbly agitated.
"Let me tell you something hoss. Unless you can recommend a better place for me to park for the next two hours, my butt is staying right here.
Arrest me if you want, but my phone call will be to this fella right here." Eric said said handing over Mr. Smythe's card.
"And I will be sure to explain to him why his wife's birthday present didn't arrive at exactly eight P.M. tonight.
I suggest you give that man a call, and maybe give your chief a call while you're at it."
Cop#1 was turning redder by the second and Eric was starting to doubt his strategy, but man that felt good.
The cop looked at the card again and a spark of recognition came across his face.
Wordlessly, he retreated to his car where he spent the next few minutes on the phone.
He reappeared as a changed man.
"We will be back at 1945 HRS to escort you to the Smythe residence. And if any other police bother you, give them my badge number.
The chief said you are not to be disturbed. Do you folks need anything while you wait?"
"Nah, I reckon we'll be ok. See yall in a couple hours."
As the pair of cops got back in their car, Kay burst out laughing.
"I was having a hard time holding that in." she said.
"So that's what it feels like to have juice." Eric said.

The delivery went off without a hitch. It was actually quite impressive being escorted in with blue lights flashing.
Eric was greeted at the door by a real life butler, who asked him to wait in the foyer.
Mr. Smythe arrived shortly to receive the painting in the padded leather case.
He was cordial, if not downright jovial, giving Eric a warm handshake, a pat on the back, and an envelope containing ten one hundred dollar bills.
"Well, that went off rather well." he said to Kay as they made their way out of the city, climbing onto I-95, northbound into the night.

 

Thank-you. That is reassuring, I think.
I am currently reading(flying through would be more apt) the lastest John Grisham to go paperback.
The title is FORD COUNTY and it is a collection of seven short stories, each averaging fifty pages in length.
I love his fast paced, straightforward style.
The first story had me hooked, with the three country boys in a pickup truck and three six packs of beer riding off into the night.
I felt like I was there.
This is a quote from the foreword, something I already knew, but seemed ominous coming from Mr. Grisham.

When A TIME TO KILL was published twenty years ago, I soon learned the painful lesson that selling books was far more difficult than writing them.
I bought a thousand copies and had trouble giving them away.
I hauled them in the trunk of my car and peddled them at libraries, garden clubs, grocery stores, coffee shops and a handful of book stores.

 

Eric decided to call it a night at the Ramada Inn in Portsmouth, New Hampshire.
Not being under a strict schedule, he wasn't anxious to explore unknown rural roads after dark.
His plan was to stay on I-95 to Watervale,Maine.
From there he would travel state route 139 twenty miles to Madison, which seemed to be the last town of any size.
It would be another sixty miles to Eustis, with the majority of that designated as a scenic route.
While sixty miles could mean forty minutes in west Texas, it could be three hours up here.
The highway north of Madison wound through some peaks of over four thousand feet in elevation, most notably Sugarloaf Mountain and ski resort.
A resort town meant motels, but he was still thankful for the sleeper berth, in case there were an unforeseen delay.
Remembering his produce hauling days of being stuck at a shipper for twelve, or even twenty-four hours or more, he decided to stock some provisions.
Despite Kay's amused skepticism, Eric walked to the grocery store across the highway from the Ramada and spent thirty dollars on bottled water, canned goods, and snacks.
Before pulling out the following morning, he called the contact number and got no answer.
"With the last of the warm weather, he's most likely out strolling by the lake." Kay surmised.
"Yeah, I imagine so." Eric answered.

 

I'm on MICHAELS ROOM now. I generally leave whatever I'm reading in the truck until I finish it, but I had to bring this one home.
PLAYING FOR PIZZA is another Grisham book that is a departure from the legal stuff, about a washed up NFL player that ends up in Italy. Funny stuff.

 

Almost twenty years to the day of Christopher Columbus stepping onto that Florida beach, the Santa Ramona began her ill fated mission to the new continent.
The ship's admiral was personally chosen by the Queen. As was the adjudant riding along. It was unheard of for any highly placed officials to participate in such voyages due to the dangers involved.
But the Queen had faith in this fine vessel and her crew. And this wasn't an ordinary mission.
Rumors were spreading around Europe of the greedy British wanting to expand her empire into the new lands.
Even talk of those pesky French snooping around.
Tales of the natives varied wildly in regards to their behavior. It was agreed upon however, that they had rather primitive living arrangements and little in the way of personal possessions.
The Queen, in her glorious naivete, felt these impovershed savages would be impressed by gold.
With that in mind, she sent along untold amounts of gold coins, entrusted to her adjutant general.
Her plan was to simply purchase large amounts of territory from the indigent natives.
The plan was to trace the initial voyage of the Nina, Pinta and Santa Maria, only deviating slightly to the northeast, putting them on the coast of what is now North Carolina.
It was believed the climate and terrain there would be similar to that of Spain, and conducive to faring and raising livestock.
Navigation being what it was at the time, the ship veered of course, and once caught up in the treacherous currents of the north Atlantic, they were at the mercy of the sea.

 

The Santa Ramona eased into Penobscot Bay, on the central coast of Maine one late August evening.
Aside from unknowingly missing the intended destination by eight hundred miles, the voyage was incident free.
But being at the intended destination would not have prevented the unspeakable horror that was to occur.
Thirty-two men were murdered in their slleep at the hands of their shipmates.
Angel Pizzaro hatched his devious scheme months prior to the voyage, when word of the enormous amount of gold that would be accompanying them leaked out.
He killed at least two men who refused to join his murderous clan, for fear that they would report him.
Angel was a First Mate, and in charge of night shift guard detail. He made sure all seven of his cohorts were on the duty roster.
The Admiral had allowed the sailors to indulge in a fair amount of rum in celebration of safely reaching the new land.
That only made the job of silently and methodically slaughtering them in their sleep that much easier.
According to legend, they then slept peacefully until sunrise amidst the carnage they created.