Carnelian Bay

By Craig Richards

Mike Reeves just wants to locate Taylor Wells, a girl he thinks he’s in love with. The memory of their last encounter got him through the tough spots in his tour in Iraq, a tour that left him with visitors at night that he tries to forget with a bottle of scotch and solitude at the end of his family’s pier at Lake Tahoe.

His love of snorkeling at the big granite boulders on the lake’s north shore complicates his life further when he finds a small metal identity tag screwed to a sunken wooden hull. Mike learns that the tag, from a life boat, is the only trace of the Emerald Bay, an eighty-foot steamship that disappeared in the winter of 1906. The ship belonged to the Wells logging empire and was on a necessary but risky sail when it was lost in a storm. The interest in the identity plate would have ended there, except the steamship carried $160,000 in gold coins, payroll for the Wells operation from Brockway to Virginia City.

Mike discovers that Taylor, a great-granddaughter of the patriarch of the Wells empire, is more interested in the gold than in him, so interested she will use whatever she has to get it. That includes her boyfriend, a lawyer with a .44 magnum revolver and the moral compass of an alley cat.

Watch your six, Mike—advice he chooses to ignore, from his friend and business partner, DeRay. Bad dreams, female problems, and now a trigger-happy lawyer. There’s always alcohol to get you over the rough spots. The good thing about alcohol is it deadens all your senses. The bad thing about alcohol is it deadens all your senses.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Craig Richards
• Release date: Apr 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310606755

Craig Richards

Born and raised in Reno, Nevada, Craig Richards was lucky enough to spend his summers at beautiful Lake Tahoe, the setting of "Carnelian Bay." After his military tour in the Orient in 1968-69, he completed a two-year gunsmithing school. He is currently a building contractor and lives with his beautiful wife of forty-two years. He enjoys working on guns, woodworking, and writing. Right now, he is in the process of writing his next novel—a treasure hunt, with love and adventure. What could be better?(Author’s photo was taken in 1968.)

Book preview

Chapter One

July 18, 2009

Mike had a month before he would deploy. A month of freedom from someone telling him what to do, how to dress, and how to live. He slipped the fins, mask, and snorkel into his small backpack, strapped it on, got the rope, and closed the passenger door. He walked back down the road from the wide spot where he had parked. He didn’t want others seeing his path. It was a private place for him, and he was careful not to leave a track as he pushed through the brush from the road and hiked to the edge of the steep drop-off. Mike tied the nylon rope to an old pine tree that had roots dug into the solid rock and tossed the coils over the side, watching the nylon end slap onto the rocky, sandy beach one hundred feet below. The first time he came here, he free-climbed down, but that took too long and he missed time in the water because of it. The rope made it easier.

The beach consisted of large grains of dark orange crystal sand, and rounded rocks the size of footballs that were scattered like marbles tossed down into a ring. The beach was only about ten feet wide, maybe twenty feet long, in a little cove open to the southwest. It was ringed with a shelf of granite that tapered down on both ends of the cove, looking like the scoop of a shovel. Small, clear waves made a shooshing sound as they moved the sand around the rocks. The mid-July day was clear except for cloud build-up on Tahoe’s south shore, a portent of a possible thunderstorm in the late afternoon. It was eighty-five degrees, the water in the fifties.

Mike liked to explore the great submerged boulders. They were home to schools of minnows that drew the bigger fish, the mackinaw and rainbow trout he saw almost every time he snorkeled around the rocks. The large fish attracted fishermen, and Mike liked to hunt for lures and the other fishing tackle lost to the rocks. Tackle wasn’t the only treasure he looked for. The bottom was salted with the wrecks of old boats that had broken free in storms just to hit the rocks and sink, becoming home to crayfish and minnows. He would often dive to the old sunken boats to see if they held anything interesting. Most were wooden boats from the 1940s and 1950s, classics like Century, Hacker, and Gar Wood. Some even had split windshields with chrome-and-brass fittings and round gauges in jeweled ovals of brass next to huge, hard-rubber-coated steering wheels.

Mike jumped off the south end of the beach ledge that stuck into the lake, giving him ten feet of clear water to land in. The cold took his breath away. He gasped for air when he came up and started swimming hard to get his body temperature up. A glint of gold caught his eye. He took two deep breaths, descended to thirty feet, and pulled a shiny lure from the crack between two rocks. He surfaced to get a good look at it. The treble hook was still shiny silver and the body not pitted or corroded. A new one. He slipped it into his small dive bag and started swimming again.

He saw two big fish that looked like rainbows and four suckers that liked the wood hulls of the wrecks, and then a brass oar lock on a section of hull that was the old-style solid ring. Two more deep breaths and he dove again. The antique was cotter-pinned in and he couldn’t get it out, but the wood was rotted, so he pulled the brass bracket and lock out of the wood along with the screws. After it had been wrenched out, he saw a small rectangular brass plaque with words cast into it, hidden below the salvaged oar lock. He was thirty feet down and running out of air, so he left it and headed for the surface.

Towering above him was a granite rock, higher than most of the others and narrower instead of rounded. Aku-Aku, he had named it, because of the great wave-worn cleft that reminded him of the chin and neck of an Easter Island statue. Slipping his find into his bag, Mike treaded water to catch his breath. He would need a dive knife to retrieve the little cast plaque. It was a half-mile swim back to the beach, but the plaque would be worth the extra time.

When he got back to Aku-Aku, the waves were bigger, and he saw whitecaps and a deep blue to the south. A storm was coming. He located the hull piece again and dove. It took him three trips, and on the last dive he hit a warm thermal layer that surrounded the area of the hull. He pushed the tip of his knife under the brass rectangle and pried the piece out, trying not to ding it with the knife. The second of the two screws finally gave way, and he held the brass rectangle in his hand as he let the air in his lungs take him to the surface. The warm thermal had moved on, and it disappointed him in a funny way, like a friend he had lost touch with. He looked at his find, but the waves kept him from staying upright, and he started getting water in his face and mouth. He slipped it in his bag and headed for the beach.

Kings Beach was famous for hamburger stands that put out thick, juicy burgers and batter-fried onion rings in paper bags almost transparent from hot oil. The crafts fair across the street was in full tilt. For a few minutes, Mike watched the people walking through the covered stalls checking out the goods, then he bought a cheeseburger, onion rings, and a Coke at a small stand that had outside tables.

Shaking his finds out of the dive bag, he looked at the two-inch by three-and-half-inch brass plaque. It was three-sixteenths of an inch thick, with a raised oval in the center with McFarlin Boat Builders, Ianstown, Buckie, Scotland, and a small raised drawing of a boat hull. Around the oval and down the sides, in raised lettering, was Life Boat, Steam Ship Emerald Bay, date of manufacture,1876. The rectangle had a raised outside edge an eighth of an inch wide that bowed out in a round hump on both ends where the screws that once held it to the boat were inset. It was old. A smile spread across his face at the thought of finding a piece of Lake Tahoe history. He looked at his watch--3:00 p.m. There was cloud cover, and wind in the tops of the pine trees, and now the rumble of thunder to the south. He finished the onion rings just as the cold raindrops began to splatter on the table.

The rest of the thirty days passed in helping his parents with the small jobs at the cabin they owned on Carnelian Bay. As often as he could, he stopped at the Old Post Office Café across from Sierra Boat Company. A girl there had attracted him, a redhead with fair, milky skin and bright green eyes and a smile. Her name was Taylor. She seemed interested, but he thought a relationship right before he left was bound to fail.

He stopped by on the last day. Taylor was surprised to see his hair cut short and commented on it.

You look good with a buzz cut.

He shrugged and said, The job I’m going to requires it. After coffee, as he paid, he smiled and said, Maybe I’ll see you again.

She looked puzzled and hesitated a second. Then she realized he was in the military and that was why his hair was short, and why he had said maybe. She understood the uncertainty and where he was going. With a concerned look, she kissed him on the cheek. I hope, was all she could say. She searched his face, thinking she was going to get more from him, but because of his shyness, all he could do was nod and turn and leave.

As he walked back towards the cabin, he shook his head. You dumb turkey! You should have kissed her or said something or done something! He thought of going back but the moment was gone. Way to go, you turkey.

Chapter Two

The one-year tour turned into two with the extensions, but finally Mike flew home, changed by the brutality of war and the loss of nine guys from his rifle company squad. Not all were friends, but a few were, and he cried over them when he could find a place to be alone. He was an E6 by then, not for his talents but because of the losses. A kid in charge of kids. For the morale of his men, he had to look strong even when a friend was lost. If they only knew.

The first few days at home were rough. Nights were endless with the bad dreams, the snakes. The worst part was hearing his parents rush downstairs to ask if he was all right. Mike hated to see their looks of concern when he jolted awake, yelling.

He decided he needed to get away from his parents to be alone, so he told them he thought it best to go away for some time by himself to readjust. Although it was early spring, he said, he would go to the cabin at Tahoe. He saw his dad’s frown deepen and his mother look away.

What’s wrong?

His dad looked away and then back again. The cabin burned to the ground a year ago, February. We didn’t want to tell you. We figured you had enough to worry about.

The cabin? How? It’s closed up for the winter!

We think kids. It’s easy to see a closed-up house from the lake. They came by boat and broke in. Started a big fire in the fireplace but didn’t open the flue. The drapes on the lakeside windows went first, then the pine ceiling caught fire. They left empty bottles of beer on the pier, but the police weren’t interested in fingerprints. Just as long as the insurance would cover it—that was all they needed or wanted to know.

Nothing’s left?

The fireplace, chimney, foundation...the cement porch on the lakeside, the water pump and pressure tank. It’s cleaned up other than that. The trees we lost were taken down and hauled away with the rubble. There are still trees on the lot. Not all of them burned.

How about the pier?

It’s fine. The pier wasn’t touched by the fire...we’re thinking of selling the lot, though. It’s worth seven or eight hundred thousand. He saw the look of shock on his son’s face. Mike, we’re just thinking about it...hasn’t gone any further than that. Really. He smiled at his son. You can use it any time. You know that. Take your tent. Living rough, but that’s what you’ve been doing the last two years. Your Honda is ready to go and—

Mike’s mother elbowed his dad in the side. He looked at her and said, I was just getting to that, woman. He pulled a box out of his coat pocket and handed it to his son. Something I found in the rubble.

Mike opened it. Inside was the little brass plaque, but he noticed the raised surfaces were polished and painted with glossy black enamel between the lettering and raised boat hull design. The screws that once held it to the boat had been silver-soldered in, and the protruding points on the backside were ground off even with the casting. It had a slight curve to it now, and a belt loop and curved pin on the back.

You guys made a belt buckle out of it. That’s beautiful.

It’s OK?

It’s beautiful. He looked at it again. It’s beautiful, Dad. I’ll find a belt for it before I leave.

It was pretty warped in the fire, but it was good-quality brass and didn’t crack when it was straightened out and then curved to fit your waist.

Thanks, Mom and Dad. This means a lot to me. More than you could know. He hugged them both and then slipped the small box into his field jacket pocket. You have my cell phone number. And don’t worry. I’ll be fine.

There’s electricity on the lot. I had a pole put in and a box. There’s a plug under the breaker box. You need anything else?

I’m fine. Thanks again. Love you.

He turned and took the Honda keys out of his pocket and walked to his car.

Chapter Three

Mike unlocked the padlock, slipped the chain through the chain-link gate, threaded it through the fence, and snapped the lock closed. He pushed the gate open until it ground into the edge of the driveway. When he looked through the break in the trees, he saw the lake instead of the cabin. It was a shock. He drove in, parked in the center of the circular driveway and got out.

The path to the pier was to the south of the cabin and went right by the two-story stone chimney that stood like a forlorn sentry, separated and lost. The first thing he always did when he came to the cabin was to check out the pier. It was clear of snow, so he walked to the end and looked across the lake to Cave Rock and then south. The south shore was hazed in, but at night it would glow yellow-orange with casino lights reflecting on the water like fire.

He looked down through twelve feet of water, as clear as it had been the last time he had seen it. The cremation urn that once held his uncle still lay about four feet out from where he stood, sunk to the bottom and lying on its side. He smiled at the memory: his uncle had loved the lake and requested that his ashes be spread off the end of the pier when he died. He died in the dead of winter, and his daughter Abby wanted to carry out his wishes as soon as possible. The family had huddled around the turned-and-polished Greek marble urn that she held in her wool-gloved hands, and they recounted fond memories as the snow floated down in the freezing air. The time came for the solemn dispersing. Abby carefully pulled the lid off the urn and, gripping the throat and base, made one fluid throw-the-baby-out-with-the-bath-water move as she tried to launch Uncle Dick’s ashes into his beloved lake. Everyone watched as the urn slipped from her cold gloved hands and splashed into the clear water, sinking to the bottom, trailing gray ash and small bits of bone like smoke from a fire. Abby turned towards of the rest of the shocked family with eyes wide as dinner plates. She put her hands to her mouth, and they all thought she was going to cry, but she surprised them by laughing. Soon everyone was laughing.

Mike looked at the urn again, shaking his head. The antennae and points of a crayfish’s claws were sticking out of the end of its marble home.

He walked back up the pier to the rock-and-cement steps that led to the path. He had to step up two feet to the cement porch that was still streaked black by the charcoal that had been ground into it from the fire. The porch was ten feet wide and forty feet long and, at one time, was fronted by alder trees that grew on the beach between the water and the retaining wall. The thick bushy hedge had blocked the view of the lake from the first floor, so his parents had always threatened to tear them out. They were gone now because of the fire, replaced by small, flat, rounded rocks that had been pushed up to the retaining wall by winter storms.

It was getting to be late afternoon, and Mike needed to set up his tent and think about his future. His job as a machinist in Reno was something he didn’t want to go back to even if it was still available. Mike always hated to punch a time clock and wanted to work for himself this time.

He’d stopped at Trader Joe’s in Reno before coming to the lake and purchased three bottles of Lismore Scotch, banana chips, and cookies. Breakfast of champions. The scotch was important in the self-medication aspects of his treatment for the snakes. The cookies were an impulse buy that happened every time he went into the store. He didn’t have an excuse for the banana chips.

He’d saved almost twenty thousand during his tour and could live on it for a year. That gave him time to decide what to do with his life. Mike did have the start of an idea. While in Iraq some of the troops lived in Conex boxes—the big, corrugated metal shipping containers that were eight feet wide and high and forty feet long. With double bunks on each side, they could sleep twenty. They weren’t roomy, and Mike shied away from sleeping in them because he felt they were a bad-guy magnet. The old joke about one grenade or RPG could get you all couldn’t be truer in that case. But one day, one of the troops found a Sunset magazine article on a studio apartment made from a Conex container. Mike thought it was cool. The more he thought about it, the more he thought he could design a nice small house out of one.

He would think about it tomorrow. Right now hunger was gnawing at his stomach, but he didn’t feel like going out and being around people. So, fix something easy and self-medicate. He wasn’t looking forward to the night because of the bad dreams. Sleeping was scary, and every time he lay down he had to fight the rise of panic. He would face that after he ate and drank enough of the scotch. Yeah, maybe the alcohol would keep the snakes in his head away, and he would feel less exhausted in the morning. Tomorrow would be a new day.

He thought of Taylor and didn’t know if seeing her this soon, with the snakes and all, was a good idea. He thought it might be too early. Control the snakes, then see Taylor.

He set up his small tent between pine and fir trees close to the main road to block the wind and got out his backpacking white-gas stove and small stainless steel pot. In Iraq, he’d gotten out of the habit of cooking ramen noodles in water. Water was life in the desert, and hoarded. The beer they used to boil the noodles somehow spiced them up and rehydrated the strips of beef jerky he added to the mix for a quick meal.

As he was finishing up, he saw a sheriff’s car slow down and then turn into the driveway. Putting the pot down on the rock that was his table, Mike uncrossed his legs and stood up. The sheriff got out of his patrol car and slipped his baton into its belt ring.

Staying at his tent, Mike looked over at the sheriff and said hi.

The sheriff walked over with his stern-cop look. Got to move on. This is private property.

My parents own it.

Can I see some ID?

Sure. He pulled out his wallet and fished out his driver’s license.

Mike Reeves, the sheriff read.

Mike nodded.

DeRay says you’re a wuss.

Mike was so surprised he just gaped. He blinked a few times and then asked, He’s back?

Whoa—let’s verify the wuss accusation first, Mr. Reeves. Is it true you’re Army?

What?

It’s a simple question. Are you an Army wuss?

Oh, you mean because he joined the Marines, and I wussed out into the Army. Is he back from Iraq? Did he call you? Is he up here? A thought struck Mike about the sheriff. You must be a Marine.

The sheriff smiled for the first time. Semper Fi. And yeah to all of the above. I have no doubt he’s watching us right now.

Mike had another thought because of what wasn’t being said—why hadn’t DeRay come over himself?

He’s not OK, is he?

Lost a foot. He’s supposed to be learning how to walk again, but I think he’s giving up. He has trouble sleeping and doesn’t like to be around people. Other than that, he’s OK.

The sheriff turned towards the south. The side window in DeRay’s house had a small slit where the drapes didn’t come all the way together. He raised his arm and gave the one-finger salute and then looked back at Mike.

He could use a friend, he said and then put out his hand. I’m Tim Knight. I’ll give you a card with my home phone number. If he needs help, give me a call. Oh, and sorry about your house. It was quite a blaze. Gate was locked. Hardened chain. Couldn’t cut it so we just watched it burn. Mike nodded. Are you going to rebuild?

My parents want to sell the lot.

They could hear the radio through the open door of the patrol car. Gotta go, Tim said. He gave another one-finger salute towards DeRay’s house and got one in return in the space between the drapes. Mike watched as the sheriff did a three-point turn in between the trees and disappeared through the gate, heading towards Tahoe City.

He unzipped the flap to his tent, picked up one of the bottles, and headed for the small man-gate in the chain-link fence between his property and DeRay’s house. The man-gate was opposite the chimney on a path lined with rocks from the beach that snaked around bushes and trees to the fence.

Mike climbed up the steps to DeRay’s deck overlooking the lake. The door was open a crack, and in a timeworn tradition, he tapped on the door and walked in. DeRay was standing with the help of crutches, his right leg ending ten inches below his knee. He was smiling.

Hey, wuss.

Mike shook his head. Man, it’s good to see you, DeRay. He crossed the floor and hugged his friend, pounding him on the back, then pushed away a bit. You called the cops on me.

You been there four hours. Didn’t come over. I don’t get around much anymore. What did you expect?

The house was dark and closed up. First thing, I looked.

"No, the first thing you did was go out to