The Woman in White Marble
by
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Perhaps a little bit of my back story explaining how I got here would be helpful. Before all this started - Silloth, the Skinburness Hotel, The Woman in
White Marble - I was a reporter on the Fremont Argus News in Northern California. I cut my teeth on the Union City Gazette then moved up to the Fremont
Argus News. From my early days as a student in the College of Hayward journalism department I imagined myself bringing down bankers and presidents. As it
turned out, I spent most of my time rewording Reuters wire stories then slipping in my byline. The biggest investigative hard-hitting story I did for the
Fremont Argus News was a probing investigation into Fremont councilmen and women feuding over where they parked their cars. Sex and money it wasn’t. Local
governments, hey.
I was living with my woman friend, Kaitlyn Lethbridge, in Union City. I say “woman friend” because she would have sued me if I called her my girlfriend.
Then one day she came home and went straight into the bedroom without saying a word. I was sitting in the kitchen reading the Fremont Argus News, which
admittedly didn’t take all that long given 70% of the paper is advertising, keeping one eye on the dinner I was preparing on the stove. Just as I was about
to finish with the Fremont Argus News Kaitlyn came into the kitchen dressed to kill. She just stood by the sink looking at me.
Bright red stilettos. A tight black skirt that emphasized her rather wonderful butt and left it in no doubt the woman had legs all the way to the top. A
beige blouse that was so sheer you could see her pure white sexy lace bra. It was hard not to be impressed, though it did seem a bit over the top for
dinner around the kitchen table.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Drake, John said he would help me with my brief, but we’d have to do it over dinner. The trial’s in two weeks,” she said looking me straight in the eyes.
Kaitlyn is a lawyer and John a senior partner in the firm. Kaitlyn’s on a fast track to glory.
“And it’s important for John’s concentration that your bra is on show?”
“Drake, for God’s sake.”
“And what about dinner? I’ve prepared stuffed peppers and…”
“What’d you stuff them with? Hamburger meat?” she interrupted. “You cook everything with hamburger meat. My God, I’m sick of hamburger meat!”
She looked down at the floor for a moment and then suddenly lifted her head in a dramatic motion and said, “Drake, we have to talk.”
That usually meant she had to talk and I had to listen. I knew I was in some kind of shit because she kept starting sentences with my name. And just for
the record, I do not cook everything with hamburger meat. Sure, I like hamburger meat, but I definitely do not cook everything with hamburger meat. I’m
just saying for the record.
“Drake. You don’t stimulate me. You don’t stimulate me intellectually. You don’t stimulate me sexually. Why?”
That was a rhetorical question. She continued without taking a breath, “Because you’re boring. Boring. Boring! Boring!! Drake. We’re through. I want you
out of here as soon as possible.”
It was her house.
Me boring. Me a reporter on the mean streets of Fremont and Union City, California. I think not.
Be that as it may, she turned and walked from the kitchen, through the dining room, living room and out the front door. Red fuck me shoes, swaying ass and
delicate bra straps mocking me all the way. I thought about shouting something about “briefs.” Get it? A play on the words brief and briefs, her being a
lawyer and all dolled up. However, I rose above the temptation. Besides, I assumed she was going commando.
It took me a couple of days to get my bearings, which I did in the privacy of the guest bedroom. I decided to call my best friends Gerard and Abigail
Schleiermacher and, as I thought they would, they insisted I stay in their guest bedroom. It was there that I rose to the challenge and thought about my
future. Instead of being crushed, I grabbed hold of the tail of life and ran with it. Well, you know what I mean. In no time at all I had a plan.
First, I had a yard sale on Kaitlyn’s front lawn to rid myself of possessions I no longer needed. What was needed I temporarily stored in Gerard and
Abigail’s garage.
Second, I took a leave of absence from my job at the Fremont Argus News. My grandmother had died a couple of years back and left me with a nice little sum.
It wasn’t enough to propel me into the 1%. Nothing like that. But it did give me some breathing space.
Third, I decided to devote six months to writing my novel, the Proustian sci fi epic. I figured six months would get Chad Steel around the galaxy,
Madeleine sponge cake or not.
Fourth, to guarantee my complete concentration on the task of writing, I decided to move to England. I thought the change would do me good. New start and
all that. And I liked England, despite the fact that Kaitlyn and I had a really big fucking fight on an ancient wall surrounding ancient York. I did my
research, homing in on a place that would promise isolation from the distractions of civilization. I came up with a small town on the Solway Firth called
Silloth that seemed to guarantee isolation.
It was a plan.
On the day before my flight to London I had one last and very painful task. I had to abandon my Toyota Corolla, a most loyal car. The odometer was
approaching 175,000 miles. The tires were worn. The dashboard was cracked and peeling from years of hot sun beating through the windshield. The gray paint
was pitted and had lost its luster years ago. And there was a bullet hole in the roof on the driver’s side. Now that’s an interesting tale which led to an
in-depth story in the Fremont Argus News.
A couple of years ago Gerard and I were standing by the Corolla parked in front of Kaitlyn’s house. Kaitlyn kept her car in the driveway and didn’t like me
blocking her in. I had my hand on the roof of the car when all of a sudden we heard a WHOOSH and a BAM! Right by my hand was a bullet hole, the bullet
still embedded in the roof. Some asshole had shot his gun into the air not thinking, or not caring, that the bullet had to come down, which it did into my
car. Gerard and I pondered, both individually and collectively, that if the bullet had come down a foot either to the right or left one of us could have
been killed. It makes you think. I mean, we didn’t turn to Jesus or anything, but still. The readers of the Fremont Argus News got a shocking story about
the number of deaths in the U.S. caused by bullets falling out of the sky. OK, I admit there aren’t any reliable statistics on this, but it’s got to be a
lot. I’m just saying. You know what the other word for journalism is? That’s right. Speculation.
Anyway, Gerard and I went online and found a place that advertised “Money for Any Car!!” which sounded like just the ticket. I drove Old Gray to the place
in South Berkeley with Gerard following behind in his Dodge Dart, also an incredibly loyal automobile. When I got to the place, I asked Joe - I assumed it
was Joe from the ad - how much he would give me for my car.
“I can’t give you any money for that thing,” Joe said looking at Old Gray shaking his head.
“What do you mean?! Your ad says money for any car!” I said not a little distressed and angry.
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Book Details
Language :
English
Publication Date :
8/29/2014
Recognition Programs
Format :
Hardcover
Dimensions :
5.5x8.5
Page Count :
180
ISBN :
9781491742822
Format :
Softcover
Dimensions :
5.5x8.5
Page Count :
180
ISBN :
9781491742815
Format :
E-Book
Dimensions :
N/A
Page Count :
180
ISBN :
9781491742808
About the Book
Drake Ramsey is a Californian news reporter who wants to write the great American science fiction novel. Dumped by his girlfriend, Drake finds himself with nothing to lose, and he searches online for a secluded place to work. Alone in a dreary English coastal town, consumed by boredom and loneliness, he is lured up the road to the Skinburness Hotel, where he finds inspiration in a beer and the atmosphere. Drake senses this is the place to harness his creative genius, without any idea of what awaits him in the near future. After a few visits, Drake is befriended by the hotel manager—just as a staff member is found mysteriously dead. Drake, ever the streetwise reporter, senses a story and begins to investigate. The last person to have seen the dead man alive is Zuri Manyika, a stunningly beautiful hotel guest. Now Drake must determine whether Zuri was involved, all the while wrestling with his undeniable attraction to her. Unfortunately, this is not the first death in the hotel—nor will it be the last—unless Drake finds a way to stop a killer on a quest for revenge. In this eerie tale, an American news reporter suddenly immersed in a suspicious death investigation in a remote corner of England is about to discover that every mystery comes with an unexpected twist.
About the Author
Dale Rominger is an educator, speaker, consultant, and writer who has traveled extensively worldwide assisting in development projects and creating educational and exposure programs with international partners. Now retired, he lives in London with his wife, Roberta, where he spends his time reading, writing, cooking, and gardening. This is his fourth book.