Tuesday, May 26, 2015

My Book Launch for Gold Fever

Wed, May 27th, 4-7pm, Joan Donaldson-Yarmey – Book Launch
Joan began her writing career with a short story, progressed to travel and historical articles, and then on to travel books. She called these books her Backroads series and in the seven of them she described what there is to see and do along the back roads of British Columbia, Alberta, the Yukon, and Alaska. She has now switched to fiction writing and is proud to be one of Books We Love Ltd published authors. Through BWL, she has had three mystery novels, Illegally Dead, The Only Shadow In The House, and Whistler's Murder published in what she calls the Travelling Detective Series. In her fourth novel, Gold Fever, she combines mystery with a little romance.  Admission for the evening is by donation to the artist OR a book purchase.
Char’s 19+ Lounge opens M-F 4pm, S-S 1pm FMI (778) 421-2427 Char’s Landing, 4815 Argyle @5th. Port Alberni  FMI http://alberni.ca/events/14938

Rules, Rules, Rules


Rules, Rules, Rules.

Ever since I began writing I have been told how to do it. There are rules on how to begin the story, what to have in the story, how to end the story. So I have listed some of the rules I have found.

Here are a few Don’ts.

Don’t assume there is any single path or playbook writers need to follow. Don’t try to write like your favorite writer. Don’t worry about whether you should outline or not, whether you should write what you know, whether you should edit as you go along or at the end. Don’t ever get complacent about the basics: good spelling, healthy mechanics, sound grammar. Don’t ever write to satisfy a market trend or make a quick buck. By the time such a book is ready to go, the trend will likely have passed. Don't try to follow some set plot formula. Don't put in a lot of fluffy, unimportant stuff that the reader is going to skip. Don’t ever assume it will be easy. Don’t ever stop reading. Don’t be afraid to give up … on your present manuscript. Sometimes, a story just doesn’t work. But, don’t ever give up writing. Writers write. It’s what we do. It’s what we have to do.

Here are some Do's.

Do grab the reader's attention at the beginning by establishing the protagonist, the setting, and the mood. Do have everything in a story caused by the action or event that precedes it. Do have the story about a person who wants something but cannot get it. Do have a vulnerable character, the right setting, and meaningful choices. Tension is at the heart of story and unmet desire is at the heart of tension. Do create more and more tension as the story continues by having setbacks, crises, and antagonism. You won't have a story until something goes wrong. Do have the protagonist making a discovery that will change his life by the end of the story. Do the writing first then worry about inserting breaks and chapters.

Here are some rules on the personal side.

Don’t spend your time waiting to hear back from an agent or publisher. Get to work on your next book or idea while you’re querying. Don’t get mad at someone for the feedback they give you. No piece of writing is perfect. Don’t forget to get out once in a while and enjoy the other parts of your life.

Here are a few dubious rules, which I have seen broken in many best sellers.

Don't open your book with weather. Don’t have a prologue. Don’t use any other word other than said to carry dialogue. (I personally find it very boring to read said all the time. How does the reader know if the character is angry if he says 'said' instead of 'shouted'? "Get out of here." can be said softly, said through clenched teeth, said angrily, shouted). You need to show emotion. Don’t use an adverb to modify the word said. (see last statement) Keep exclamation points to a minimum. (Again see above). Avoid detailed description of characters, settings and objects.

And now some quotes about writing from famous writers.

“The road to hell is paved with works-in-progress.”—Philip Roth

“Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.” —George Orwell

 “We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.”—Ernest Hemingway

“Every secret of a writer’s soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind, is written large in his works.”—Virginia Woolf

 “The greatest part of a writer’s time is spent in reading, in order to write; a man will turn over half a library to make one book.”—Samuel Johnson

“If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it. Or, if proper usage gets in the way, it may have to go. I can’t allow what we learned in English composition to disrupt the sound and rhythm of the narrative.”—Elmore Leonard

“Write. Rewrite. When not writing or rewriting, read. I know of no shortcuts.”—Larry L. King

 “There are no laws for the novel. There never have been, nor can there ever be.”—Doris Lessing

“Style means the right word. The rest matters little.”—Jules Renard

“Style is to forget all styles.”—Jules Renard

“I do not over-intellectualize the production process. I try to keep it simple: Tell the damned story.”—Tom Clancy

 “Don’t expect the puppets of your mind to become the people of your story. If they are not realities in your own mind, there is no mysterious alchemy in ink and paper that will turn wooden figures into flesh and blood.”—Leslie Gordon Barnard

 “Plot is people. Human emotions and desires founded on the realities of life, working at cross purposes, getting hotter and fiercer as they strike against each other until finally there’s an explosion—that’s Plot.”—Leigh Brackett, WD

“The first sentence can’t be written until the final sentence is written.”—Joyce Carol Oates

“When your story is ready for rewrite, cut it to the bone. Get rid of every ounce of excess fat. This is going to hurt; revising a story down to the bare essentials is always a little like murdering children, but it must be done.”—Stephen King

 “You do not have to explain every single drop of water contained in a rain barrel. You have to explain one drop—H2O. The reader will get it.”—George Singleton

“When I say work I only mean writing. Everything else is just odd jobs.”—Margaret Laurence

“The difference between the almost right word and the right word is … the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning.”—Mark Twain

“People say, ‘What advice do you have for people who want to be writers?’ I say, they don’t really need advice, they know they want to be writers, and they’re gonna do it. Those people who know that they really want to do this and are cut out for it, they know it.”—R.L. Stine

  “Beware of advice—even this.”—Carl Sandburg

 





 

West To The Bay


 

 Gold Fever

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00PEOSJR8

The Travelling Detective Series boxed set:

Illegally Dead

The Only Shadow In The House

Whistler's Murder





Sunday, April 12, 2015

Dragon Boating


Dragonboating

Dragon boating is a very popular water sport and there are festivals held all over the world. Many of those have special breast cancer survivor races, plus there are international breast cancer survivor only festivals.

I belong to a breast cancer survivor dragon boat race team. I have been to an international festival in Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada, one in Caloundra, Queensland, Australia, and one in Sarasota, Florida, USA. About one hundred teams gather from around the world at each of these events and it is amazing to see the thousands of women dressed in pink.

Each team has twenty paddlers in the boat, plus one drummer and one steersperson. The drummer, who sits at the front with a drum and baton, pounds the drum to keep us paddling in rhythm while the steersperson in the back keeps us on course. Both of them watch our paddling technique. The boat is narrow at both ends and bulges in the middle, making it a tight fit for the paddlers at the front and back. There are two paddlers per seat and the person beside you is your partner.

As paddlers we have one hand on the handle of the paddle and the other on the shaft near the blade. We raise the paddle and lean out over the side of the boat so that the paddle is vertical and both hands are over the water. We rotate our upper bodies which puts the blade of the paddle beside the hip of the person in front of us. This is our reach. We jab the blade into the water and pull it back until it is near our own thigh then lift it out. That is our stroke. All the twenty paddlers have to do this in unison, called timing, in order for the boat to go forward. The faster we stroke the faster the boat goes.

I find that Facebook is a wonderful tool for connecting with family and friends around the world. Each day there are many funny videos and thoughtful sayings shared on it. The following is a list of orders given to dragon boat paddlers by their steersperson or drummer that was shared on Facebook. I have heard them all either during practice or in a race. However, taken out of context they may be considered a little off colour. I have added a few to the list as well.

Do you mind stroking for us?

Do you have any wax for my shaft?

We'll do a wet start.

Give me two more inches.

Lower your hand on the shaft.

Pull out sooner, you're getting me wet.

It's really tight back here.

You're holding the shaft too tight, relax your grip.

Dig it deep and feel the glide.

Open up and show your partner your chest.

Don't bob your head.

We are a bit front heavy.

Give it to me.

Don't pull out too soon.

Give it all you got.

Close your eyes and feel the rhythm.

Pull it out at the same time as the person in front of you.

I have a blister on my butt.

Lift your butt cheek when you reach, it helps you thrust more.

You're pulling out too soon and it's splashing me.

Deeper, harder, stronger, faster.

Dig, dig.

Keep it long.

Long and strong.

Harder, harder.

Faster, faster.

Power finish now.

You have this, you have this.

 
http://bookswelove.net/authors/donaldson-yarmey-joan/




 Gold Fever

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00PEOSJR8

The Travelling Detective Series boxed set:

Illegally Dead

The Only Shadow In The House

Whistler's Murder

Friday, March 13, 2015

Today We Danced


 In my real life I am a nursing attendant. I have looked after people with Alzheimer's Disease and this is a short story I wrote about the disease.

Today We Danced

 
       There is entertainment this afternoon. I punch in the code that unlocks the door and take you to the dining area of the other side of the facility. The tables have been pushed to the walls and the residents sit in their wheelchairs beside them. A man has brought in a portable organ and his wife a violin. They play the old songs, the songs we grew up to in the 1940s and 50s when I wore a flared skirt and bobby socks and you had a crew cut. You sway to the music. It is as if you recognize the tunes.
       When they play a waltz, you bow and hold out your left hand. With delight, I slip in my right one. You put your right arm around my waist. I place my left hand on your shoulder. You pull me close and we waltz to the music. Your eyes sparkle the way they always did when we danced. You smile down at me and my heart quickens. It is a smile I haven’t seem lately, the smile of my truelove.
       The music ends and we hold hands. We talk, remembering the first time we danced as sweethearts. For me it is one of the hundreds of memories I have of our life together. For you it is one of the few memories you have left.
       When the entertainment is over, I push the button that unlocks the door from this side. We step back into the locked section, your home now that I can’t look after you anymore. We walk along the hallway in the midst of your fellow residents. Most are about our age, some, unfortunately, are younger. Everyone is mobile but in varying degrees. A man, who is only in his sixties, spends his days hurrying up and down as if late for something. A woman shuffles, holding onto the rail. Another man stands with his coat on. He is adamant when he tells the nursing aides that he has to go home.
       As we stroll, you say. “I come from a family of eleven children and none of us robbed a bank.” You are full of surprise sayings like that. Many times you state. “I want to go home to the farm to see my mother.” Once, you said. “If I climb onto the roof, I can look down on the valley and the farm.”
       I ask if you have to go to the bathroom. You are incontinent but sometimes you will go on the toilet if asked. You say yes. I lead you to the room you share with another man. A woman is making and remaking your bed. Every day she is busy doing something like washing the tables or fixing the beds, or cleaning the sink and counter. I guess in her mind she is doing the housework as she has done for years.
       I take you into the bathroom and undo your pants. I remove the diaper, which is soaked and sit you down on the toilet. While you stay there, I unlock your closet beside the bed and remove a plastic bag for the diaper. The staff does not refer to them as such. They call them briefs or incontinent products. But it doesn’t matter how they try to disguise the name, they are still diapers, just like the ones put on babies.
       There is a foul odour when we go into the hallway. One woman is standing against the wall. Her pink pants are wet and have brown streaks on them. A nursing aide approaches her.
       “Come. We have to change you.”
      “I don’t need changing.”
      “Yes, you are dirty.” The nursing aide puts her hand on the woman’s arm.
      “Leave me alone!” She pushes her away. “I’m not dirty!”
      Another staff member comes to help. They each take one of woman’s arms. She yells at them as they pull her towards the shower room.
       “Stop it you damned bitches!” She twists her arms and kicks out at them. “Leave me alone! I’ll kill you!”
       One of them looks at us. “It’s not her,” she explains to me. “It’s the disease.”
       She fights and kicks all the way to the shower room and I still hear her yelling behind the door. Later, when she comes out washed and changed, she sits in a chair in your dining room and ignores everyone.
       It is suppertime. The food services people push the cart with the hot food on it through the opened door. I stay to help. The nursing aides have a hard time keeping everyone seated while waiting for their food. Some, if not served immediately, get up and wander away. I help pass out the bowls of soup and get one for you. With a little prompting you can feed yourself.
       The residents with teeth get a regular plate of food, the ones without get pureed food. Most of them can feed themselves, but some use their fingers instead of cutlery to scoop up the meat and mashed potatoes and gravy. One woman refuses to eat. She hasn’t eaten much in days. It is as if she doesn’t know what she is supposed to do with the food anymore. She won’t let anyone feed her and gets mad when they try. She has lost a lot of weight.
       Back at your room I get you ready for the night. I wash you and put on your pajamas. I remake your bed. When I kiss you goodnight, you say.
       “Don’t ever come to a place like this. It’s not pleasant to be here.”
       I have no answer to that. I leave
      We have both lost our lives. Your life has narrowed to your room and the hall. Mine is coming to visit you.
                                                 *   *   *   *   *
      The disease had crept up on you, on us. First there was the lack of concentration, then the memory lapses. You sometimes didn’t remember where the dishes went or where our bedroom was. The repetitive movements, like the constant smoothing of your hair with your hand, bothered the children and me, but we tried to hide what was happening. We laughed and made excuses.
       You began roaming the house at night. You were so restless, walking from room to room. I got scared when you started to go out into the yard during the day. I watched you as much as I could while doing my housework. Then you wandered away from home. The first couple of times I managed to find you on my own. I told the children and they installed a lock high up on the door where you couldn’t see it.
       You would get so mad when you were unable to open that door. You’d pound on it and kick at it. I would try to get you to play cards with me or watch the television but you couldn’t be distracted. Finally, I just had to let you be. One afternoon, somehow, you got out. I couldn’t find you and phoned the police. They asked all the bus drivers and taxi drivers to watch for you. A taxi driver found you late at night on the other side of the city. He took you to the nearest police station. They brought you home and you didn’t remember where you had been or how you got there.
       The children and I took you to the doctor the next day. After many tests, he said those two words that we all had been denying: Alzheimer’s Disease.

             *   *   *   *   *
       When I come today, I am told you were resistive during your morning wash and change. You yelled at the staff and tried to hit one. The disease is progressing.
       I find you sitting at a table rubbing your hands over the surface and saying. “Tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow is another day.”
       “What are you doing?” I ask.
       “What are you doing? What are you doing?” You begin repeating.
       You have done this before. Once, when the episode was over, I asked you if, at the time, you knew you were doing it. You said yes. I asked you if you could stop it. You said no.
       A fellow resident walks by saying. “Where are my clothes? I need my clothes.”
       You say. “I need my clothes. I need my clothes.”
       Your eyes are begging me, asking me for help. The look of fear and confusion in them makes me cry. I take you in my arms and hold you.
       One day, while you were still at home, you tried to make me promise to help you commit suicide before the disease robbed you of most of your mind. I was a coward then. I love you and I couldn’t promise.
      I am so sorry now.

Gold Fever


 
Books of The Travelling Detective Series boxed set:

Illegally Dead

The Only Shadow In The House

Whistler's Murder




 
https://www.amazon.com/author/joandonaldsonyarmey

Tuesday, February 17, 2015

A Capital Offense

I wrote this short story many years ago. It has been published twice, once in a magazine in the US and once in a magazine here on Vancouver Island. The second time it won First Prize in the Flash Fiction Category. Last year I adapted it as a stage play and presented it in the Port Alberni Fringe.
 
 
A Capital Offense

I was dusting the living room one evening when Byron stomped down the hall, his housecoat flapping behind. I wrinkled my nose at the smell of beer and body odor as he neared.
     “I printed this off for you,” he yelled, throwing a piece of paper at me.
     I cringed. He never talked to me in a decent voice anymore. I hadn’t liked the changes in my husband while he’d struggled to become a published writer and I certainly didn’t like the person he’d become since getting his book contract.
     He’d quit his job because, “I have to finish my manuscript. I can’t continue to work and write, too.”

     I’d had to take a second, part time job to make ends meet.
     Byron had been using our kitchen table for his writing room but once the contract was signed he claimed the guest bedroom as his. “I need a room of my own where I can have some privacy,” he’d stated. “If I want to work into the night, I can lie down when I’m tired and not be disturbed.

     At first he seemed to be doing a lot of work but then one day I answered the phone and it was Mr. Higgins, Byron's agent. He wanted to speak with Bryon. I knocked on Byron's door and opened it. Byron immediately began yelling. "Would you quit interrupting me. Haven’t I told you not to bother me when I am working. I lose my train of thought."
     I handed him the phone. "Your agent wants to talk with you."
     Byron glared at me and grabbed the phone. He took a deep breath then said pleasantly. "Hello Mr. Higgins."
     He listened and I could see his face turning red. "Yes, Mr. Higgins. I know I am late with some chapters. I will get them to you by the end of the week."
     When Byron hung up he said to me. "From now on, when you have something to say to me, you write it on a piece of paper and slide it under the door. I don’t have time for interruptions." He threw the phone and me and slammed the door.
     Since then, there were many times I wished he’d never gotten that contract and, even some, when I wished I’d never married him.
     Now he glared at me as he said. “I want you to come into my office now and email your sister back.”
     I smoothed the paper and read. `Hi Sis. I thought we could go back to emailing. It’s quicker than a letter and I’m sure Byron won’t mind if we do it two or three times a week.’
     Rosemary lived across the country and we’d kept in touch by e-mail until The Contract when I was banned from Byron’s office. Neither one of us could afford the long distance charges so phoning was out of the question. I had to give up my cell phone so we tried writing letters but they were time consuming and not as immediate as email.
     Now in his office empty beer cans, plates with leftover food, and full ashtrays were everywhere and it smelled as bad as he did. On the floor I saw the many notes with messages from his agent that I’d pushed under the door. Obviously, he didn’t read them.
     “What do you want me to say?” I asked.
     “What do you think? Tell her not to send another email.”
     In my agitation, I hit the Caps Lock key, starting to type in capital letters.
     “Capital letters means you’re shouting, Dummy,” Byron laughed harshly.
     I finished and left the room in tears.
     I was tired and hungry and decided to make something quick and easy for supper. As I put the lid on the macaroni, Byron entered the kitchen and yanked open the refrigerator door. “Is that all the beer?
     “I guess so.”
     “Is it too much to ask that there be beer in the fridge?” He grabbed a can and opened it.
     “I bought a dozen yesterday.”
     “Are you saying I drink too much?”
     Byron had claimed other writers like Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler drank while writing and it made them more productive. From the number of phone calls from his agent about late chapters, I guessed it wasn’t working for him.
     “What’s for dinner?” He lifted the lid from the pot.
     “Macaroni and beans.” I answered.
     “Geeze.” He slammed down the lid. “Can’t you fix anything decent?”
     “I worked all day.”
     “Are you insinuating I didn’t?”
     I sighed and wished, again, that I’d never married him.
     The next evening I put oil on to heat for French fries then went to have a quick shower. It felt so good I spent more time than I’d intended. When I got out, I could smell smoke. I donned my housecoat and hurried to the kitchen. The oil had caught fire and it had spread to the cupboards and curtains. The living room and hallway were filling with smoke.
     I coughed as I warned Byron, then rushed next door to call the fire department. I returned but Byron was not in the yard. When the trucks arrived, I hurried over.
     “My husband’s still in there,” I cried.
     The firemen tried entering the house but were driven back by the heat and smoke.
     An hour later the fire was out and an ambulance had taken Byron’s body away.
     “I set the oil on the burner and went for a shower,” I explained to the police officer who was questioning me. “When I came out there was smoke everywhere.”
     “Then what did you do?” she asked.
     “I ran next door to call the fire department.” I dabbed my eyes.
     “Did you notify your husband?”
     “Oh, yes. I shouted at him,” I said, thinking of the word FIRE I’d printed three times in capital letters on a piece of paper and shoved under his door.

Wednesday, January 14, 2015

Facing Rejection by Joan Donaldson-Yarmey



Rejection: the act of rejecting; the state of being rejected; a thing rejected.

Rejection slip: a note from a publisher rejecting the accompanying returned manuscript.

Like most writers I have received form rejection slips and form rejection emails telling me politely that the publishing house is unable to accept my manuscript. An example: Thank you for considering ECW. Unfortunately, Controling (sic) Her Death is not right for us. I wish you every success in finding a home for your book.

However, I have also received emails and letters giving me more details about the rejection and adding a few encouraging words about my manuscript.

 
Dear Joan,

Thanks for submitting Controlling Her Death: My Mother's Date With Suicide to Coach House Books. Our editors noted that there's both an immediacy and a poignancy to the prose that draws the reader in from the first page.

Sadly, however, we can't offer to take it on for Coach House. We can publish only a few novels each year, and we have a surfeit of exceptional manuscripts. This leaves us in the unfortunate position of being unable to house many of the fine manuscripts we receive. We’re sorry to say that we aren’t able to fit your work on our list.

We wish you all the very best in finding a good home for it.

Sincerely,

Coach House Books

 
Dear Joan Donaldson-Yarmey

Thank you for submitting your manuscript The Nursery to Ronsdale Press for possible publication. Our readers have now made their reports, and I am sorry to inform you that they have recommended against publication.

After reading your excerpt our principal editor noted, "This is well written and has a great opening, but I find that it moves too slowly and that her memories-at least at the beginning-are the sort of thing that has been often written about. There is little sense of excitement or the strange. The Stone Angel does something similar, but with more verve.

We wish you well in finding a publisher for your manuscript.

Yours sincerely

Cheyanne Turions

Publishing Assistant.

 
But a rejection, however nicely worded, is still a rejection and it is hard to accept. In the beginning of my writing career I went through a three day grieving process each time I received a rejection letter.

On the first day I would feel totally depressed. I would question why I was writing, who did I think I was trying to write a novel? I would decided that this would be the last day that I wrote anything. I would wallow in self-pity, shed a tear in frustration, and even kick a door.

Day two would bring anger. Anger at the publisher for rejecting my manuscript. Anger at the months it had taken me to write the seventy-five thousand words. Anger at myself for not having written a publishable novel. I would try to figure out how to change it to make it better.

Day three brought a realization that maybe a different publisher might like it. There is the saying: right idea, right publisher, right day. With a renewed enthusiasm I would send it out again and again. I would decide that no one could take away the fact that I had written a manuscript, that I had had the nerve to send it to a publisher.

We writers are supposed develop thick skins. We are supposed to detach ourselves from our work. We are supposed to realize that we are not being judged, that our intelligence, our sense of humour, our sex appeal, and our character are not on the line. What is being judged is just that one piece of writing we have done. But it is a piece of writing that we have written, that we have spent hours at producing. Sometimes, it is tough not to take a publisher's rejection personally.

But the point is to carry on. With multiple submissions being allowed if one publisher rejects my manuscript I have the two or three others to look forward to hearing from. Sometimes I can have two manuscripts and two or three short stories out in the 'please publish me' world at one time. And when I finish one novel, I start another so I am engrossed in it to spend much time worring about the previous one.

The difference between being a success or being a failure is quitting too soon. And we all know of famous writers whose works were rejected many times before being accepted and becoming best sellers. Here are a few of the rejections letters:

"We are not interested in science fiction which deals with negative utopias. They do not sell."

Stephen Kings first published novel, Carrie, was rejected so many times that King collected the letters on a spike in his bedroom. When finally published in 1974, 30,000 copies were printed. A year later the paperback version sold over a million copies in 12 months.

"You’re welcome to le Carré – he hasn’t got any future."

One publisher sent this to a colleague after turning down The Spy Who Came in From the Cold.

"For your own sake, do not publish this book."

A publisher wrote to DH Lawrence about his novel Lady Chatterley's Lover.

Maybe rejection letters make us better writers, maybe they make us better people, or maybe they just annoy us. Whatever our reaction we have to remember that, with publishers receiving thousands of manuscripts each year, being rejected is just one part of the whole writing process.
http://bookswelove.net/
http://thetravellingdetectiveseries.blogspot.com/
http://www.facebook.com/writingsbyjoan
amazon.com/author/joandonaldsonyarmey

Gold Fever
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00PEOSJR8

Books of The Travelling Detective Series boxed set:
Illegally Dead
The Only Shadow In The House
Whistler's Murder
http://amzn.com/B00KF07FQM


 

Thursday, December 11, 2014

Gold Fever--my newest mystery novel (not from the travelling detective series.)


I have written a new mystery and is available as a ebook now through Amazon Kindle.
Boni Baldwin is taken out of the city and thrust into an environment she dislikes-- camping. Her mother, Elsie Wiggins, is on a quest to find information on her father who disappeared fifty-five years ago in the mountains of southern British Columbia and Boni is the only one of her children who is able, but reluctant, to accompany her.

The first person they meet is Rick, a mountain man who has a claim on the Salmo River and is prospecting with his grandfather for gold. He offers to show Boni around the area hoping to convince her that being in the bush is not a terrible thing. They also meet Jerry, who is the one Elsie contacted about camping on his gold claim. Jerry offers to show Elsie how to pan for gold during her stay. Boni and Elsie are threatened by other prospectors along the river and told to leave. When they don't, their campsite is trashed, twice. This scares Boni but only makes Elsie mad. No Rambo wannabees are going to frighten her away. They do discover some new clues about Elsie's father after all these years, but all that comes to an end when the man they are scheduled to interview is murdered before they get to his house. As much as they hate to admit it, both Rick and Jerry are on their list of suspects for the trashing of their campsite and for the murder.
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00PEOSJR8