Time Out

The time change and nice weather showed up together. For the past few days, the temperature has been close to eighty, though it still gets cold at night. The winter rain has left my backyard a bright green and the orange trees are just about to burst into blossom.

For the moment I am waiting to hear about a number of writing projects and actually can’t work on anything right now. The weather and the free time made it perfect to head for a walk in the mountains.

We always seem to wait until late in the day to go, which is okay with me. No need for sunglasses, hats or being concerned about sunburn. On the positive side, we get to watch the sky turn pastel shades of pink and blue as the bright orange sun slips behind the mountains.

The Santa Monica mountains get more moisture than the other ranges that ring the valley and are always sort of green. But now everything is super green. The ground they cleared in the fall for fire concerns is popping to life with reedy green grasses. The air smells sweet and little sunflowers grow along the road.

Every time I go up to the dirt section of Mullholland, I think how lucky I am to have this almost in my backyard. The views are fabulous. One way and I can watch the lights begin to twinkle over the west valley and see ribbons of headlights and brakelights on Winnetka as it goes north. I love looking at familiar places from this king of the mountain angle. I can pick out the lights on the parking lot of Topanga Plaza mall, see the 118 freeway far in the distance. See is not exactly the right term. I can make out where it is when the cars on it catch the light.

If turn the other way, I see the empty mountains that are between me and the Pacific. There is a spot we sometimes go to where you can see over the mountains and watch planes land at LAX, see the ocean and even Catalina island.

Tucked between the mountains in what seems like a secret valley are a few houses. I’m sure there must be a road leading to them, but from my vantage point it looks like they have to get dropped in by parachute.

What gets me every time I walk up here is that it is literally minutes from traffic jams, Starbucks and crowded supermarkets, but up here it is quiet. Well, when the sun goes down, the coyotes start announcing that it’s dinner time and their howls echo off the mountains.

The air changes as you walk. Cooler air snakes between the mountains from the ocean and surprises you. And then a waft of warm air shows up and blows it away. Sometimes the clouds seem so low, you feel like you can almost touch them. We always stay too long and walk back in the darkness. Then it’s all silhouettes and mystery, and maybe a little danger. A few mountain lions live in the Santa Monicas. Could they be hiding on that ridge? Mostly we see bunnies and birds flying out of bushes, but somewhere there are bob cats, tarantulas and rattlesnakes, too. There are deer, too, but they do a good job of hiding. We’ve only seen them twice. A few times we’ve seen an owl take off and fly over us, so without any sound of flapping wings as to be eerie. We’ve had coyotes parallel us as we go down the hill. They didn’t look at us and we didn’t look at them.

The best is when there’s a full moon to light our way.

Every time I come back from a walk up there I feel like I’ve just been given the best gift.

A Change of Scenes

I left the victim in book four of the crochet mysteries dead on the beach and let my son talk me into going for a walk in the mountains behind us. It still amazes me how we can drive a short distance through some twisty streets of houses, park just before the street ends, and walk into a wilderness. More specifically it’s the Santa Monica Mountain conservancy.

It was a perfect time for a walk. The afternoon had started to fade and the temperature had dropped into the low 60's. The sky was clear except for some clouds that looked like wisps of hair and the recent rains had left everything green and sweet smelling.

The path from where the streets ends led us up to the dirt road portion of Mullholland. We took the opposite turn we usually do and after a short burst of bushes and open area, we passed a large concreted rectangle we think is a helicopter pad or at least we saw a helicopter land there once. It’s surrounded by wild growth and giant hunks of sand colored rock. As we continued, the road turned and there was tall growth on either side with an occasional path going off and disappearing.

When we reached the creepy water tank behind the barbed wire fence we turned off onto an asphalt road that goes a short way and then abruptly ends just before a steep cliff. From there we took a narrow path that led up and around until we reached a summit that offered a fabulous view. The helicopter pad seemed about the size of a postage stamp. Beyond, the San Fernando Valley looked like a sparkling carpet as lights came on. There was still of dusting of snow on some of the taller mountains that ring the Valley. The Santa Monicas aren’t as tall and thanks to the ocean air that finds it way through them, are much greener. As we looked back into the Santa Monicas, we could see mysterious houses tucked into secret valleys that seemed to have no outlet.

The sun was beginning to slide behind the mountains to the west when we started back. By the time we got to dirt Mullholland, the sun was gone and the sky becoming night. Coyotes starting to think about dinner yipped in the distance. We passed pockets of fragrant, cold, damp air that had wound its way in from the ocean. It was completely dark when we reached the street and the car.

Then it was home and back to work on who fed my victim on the beach the deadly s’more.

Real Versus Imaginary

When I turned in the manuscript for Hooked on Murder my editor asked me if there was a bookstore in Tarzana that readers might think was the one in the book. I told her not to worry. There are two country clubs in Tarzana and it is where Brittany Spears came to shave her head, but there are no bookstores.

The other day a woman sent me an email and asked if I was going to post of photo of the charity afghan that appears in Hooked on Murder. I was sorry to disappoint her, but the afghan like the bookstore only exist in my imagination.

I began to think about Molly’s Tarzana versus the real deal. The street names are the same, but all the businesses are factitious. I took an adorable building I saw in Carmel and mentally moved it to Tarzana to become the Cottage Shoppe where lots of the action in Dead Men Don’t Crochet takes place. I do know exactly where it would be and am always a little disappointed when I see the lackluster building that is really in that spot.

I love the café and cupcake place I created and only wish they really existed. I’d be a good customer for sure.

The other day my son and I went for a walk in the nearby mountains. We always park at the end of a residential street and then walk into the Santa Monica Mountain Conservancy. Just before the street dead ends there is a driveway that hugs the curve of the mountain. In my Tarzana that driveway leads to the house where the murder in By Hook or Crook takes place. I have spent so much time imagining that house I expect to see it when I look down the long road. But there in no old two-story Spanish style house with a red tiled roof. The actual house is barely visible and not even on the same side of the driveway. And yet, in my mind I can see the dark wood floors and huge pots of mother-in-law tongue plants, the stairway to the second floor, and the bedroom with the victim sprawled in her bed.

I might change the house, but I would never touch the view we get from our walk. I couldn’t possibly better that in my imagination. Picture a valley ringed by mountains turning purple and gold as the sun slips behind them. Streets like red and white ribbons of light that cut through the areas of puff ball trees. All across the valley twinkling lights are coming on. Houses on the ridge below us, look like miniatures as does the car on the street in front of them.

I know the view well enough to know the tiny spot of blinding white lights belongs to the parking structure at Topanga Mall. And all the way across the valley and part way up the mountains on the other side, there is a line of orangish lights. They belong to the park in Porter Ranch where you get the same view I’m seeing but in reverse.

Behind us the dirt road and hillside melt into the low light and we hear the eerie cries of coyotes thinking about dinner. Time to go home.