#2 Roadtrip
Wayward Guide for the Untrained Eye 30 Day Prompt
(This spans Episode 2 and half of Episode 3)
Day #2
(I do not own any other characters or place names outside of Shelby St. Ranger, this is just for fun)
The closest library was an hour away. I normally didn’t go that far unless I was going for a big shopping trip, to get more than I could acquire at the town market. But I felt driven, possibly by that unexplained guilt that sank farther in my belly as I brushed my teeth and looked past my eyes in the mirror and into the past, into Ryan Reynolds’ eyes. As bespectacled as they were, they had a twinkle, a conviction, and now that twinkle had been put out.
I drove my Volvo around the curved roads, sliding only slightly into the other lane to simultaneously make sure no one was coming around the bend and to get a better view of the hills that seemed to overlap into the distance. This was the one thing that made me grateful for growing up in the city; I was still awestruck by the scenery. Locals could look at this sprawling gold tinted wonderland and shrug, but I felt humbled and enamored by the beauty of it all.
The road straightened and the hills became smaller and golden, until they flattened into dirt and rows of crops. I turned off the main road and passed the small school, the grocery store, and finally found the library. I’d been there before for my novel research, so I already had a library card. My foray into historical fiction had bad timing with my new lack of access to the internet, as before when I’d just written wild fantasy stories and fanfiction I could just make stuff up or pool from my endless knowledge of fandoms. But actual research for historical fiction in the guts of the sepia toned library that wreaked of mothballs, that was an experience I only found charming the first time. But I was glad of it now as I began my research. I started with books on Connor Creek, taking out my notebook and jotting down little bits of history. There had been two families that founded Connor Creek, one of them obviously the Connors, and also the MacMahons. I found it interesting I hadn’t met anyone with either of those last names. I made a note to visit the cemetery, out of pure curiosity. That’s all this was, I told myself, pure curiosity.
There were only a few books that said anything about Connor Creek, largely they dealt with either the Gold Rush in general and only had a few chapters on Connor Creek. But one book, obviously worn and old, was called “The Tales of Connor Creek”. This one I decided to check out. It was in my casual eye flick through the table of contents I noticed the chapter “The Werewolves of Connor Creek”. I laughed quietly to myself at that, and it had almost made me put the book back, but it was the best they had. And in my research in Norse Culture, their legends had important truths within them, so maybe it was the same here.
It sat on my desk as I tried to work on my book. The day had passed me by in the library, and now the sun was growing heavy in the sky outside and inside I turned on the desk lamp and stared at the screen. This wasn’t writers block, this was writers distraction. All I wanted to do was read about Connor Creek.
After thirty minutes and only a small paragraph of words squeezed out of my mind like water from a sponge, I grabbed the book and moved to the tiny couch I usually ate my little meals I threw together and watched DVDs on my tiny DVD player and TV in one I’d gotten at a thrift store and was still on the floor. Furniture wasn’t a big priority for me. I had a desk, I had a couch, I had a mattress on a floor in my room; I was good.
The book was a bit dry at first, and I skipped through the introduction that described the town as it was when the book was written. I knew it wouldn’t be that different anyway, and flipped to the first chapter. The first chapter talked about the silver mines. It was said that mining had decreased because of one family, the Connors, wanting to keep the town small, while the other family, the MacMahons, wanted more silver and wound up leaving town. Which made some sense, Connor Creek. But the whole idea seemed odd to me. And the town hadn’t been too upset to let their biggest source of income stay largely hidden in the mine? I got up and grabbed my notebook and swiping past many scribbles about vikings, I found a blank page and wrote down the year the silver mine had shut down. More research to do. Maybe I’d go back to the library after the election the next day, or try to cram the book in a few days and then go back.
After a few more pages, where it started to lay out the history of the two families I had already read about, I found myself drifting a little. I got up to make some coffee and realized I’d run out the day before and had forgotten. I hadn’t had any in the morning in my excitement and now my head was starting to hurt as if I’d summoned the caffeine headache merely by the realization I hadn’t had any yet. Sighing, I looked at the clock and realized the market would be closed. I could drive into town really fast, get a coffee from the dead canary, and work on it there. Being around a couple of people (literally like two usually at the Dead Canary) would keep me alert along with the coffee. I’d stay til closing and then come back and try to cram as much of the book into my head as possible. The urgency of doing this was spearheaded by the election the next day. I could even ask around about what was going on with the town council now that Ryan Reynolds was dead. Perfect. I threw on my coat and grabbed my keys, threw the book in the passenger side and drove down my driveway.
I found a place to park and walked into the bar. I was quick to tell Desmond I needed a coffee, instead of my usual beer, and he simply nodded as I went to my corner and put the book and my little notebook down on the table.
I went back to the bar and leaned on it. His interest piqued, as it was odd behavior for me, Desmond turned away from the coffee machine as it lurched into motion and grabbed a rag to polish a glass with. He did so with his eyebrows ever so slightly raised as he said, “Something on your mind Shelby?”
“Yes, actually.” I took a breath, this was not my speciality. “I was wondering if you knew much about the silver mines, and why Miner Mole wants to extract them.”
He motioned with his busy hands over to my table. “Is that what you’re writing about?”
“I wanted to make an informed decision about my vote.” And nothing to do with a murder mystery, I thought to myself. “You don’t have anyone to choose between now.”
“Well, true, but-” I was interrupted by the Sheriff coming in and I excused myself back to my table.
I had the book open when Desmond brought my coffee. “Why didn’t you ask the Sheriff about- hey what do you have there?”
Startled, I looked down and closed the cover keeping my finger inside. “Just learning some local history.”
“How far you get in that book?”
“Not far yet. Just learning about the families that founded the town.”
He nodded. “Enjoy your coffee.” He said and walked away.
I got lost in the history of silver mining and somewhere in there faintly heard the bell a few times, a phone ring in the back, and some loud chatter in the background I was able to shut out, until I had to pee. I tried to go fast, but I got lost in my thoughts and probably spent a few minutes longer than usual. I got back to my table and finished my coffee standing over it. When I put the cup down, I noticed the book was gone. My notebook was still open with what little notes I’d made in it, but the book was gone. I poked my head over to the bar, but no one was there. I looked under the table, and around the other booths. I went over to the bar and looked behind it. I couldn’t see anyone. I walked back to my booth, and there was my book. I cursed under my breath at myself and decided it was time to go back home. I went to pay and Desmond was there cleaning a glass, like he’d been there all along, telling me to have a nice night.
It wasn’t until the next day I discovered that pages were missing.
