Tie Dye: A Bonaventura Cozy Mystery - Book 2

By Zara Brooks-Watson

"Good morning, America, how are you?..." Tie Dye is the Sixties sequel to the historic Fifties novel, Jitterbug. This book is about two runaway teenage hippies in love, circa 1966. A story not too far from today. Filled with flowers,incense, pot, resistance,LSD, anti-draft marches and the social changes of the day, Tie Dye places its heroine in Grant Park, downtown Chicago -- across the street from Michigan Avenue. This is the place where the SDS anti-draft riot occurred during the Democratic National Convention.

Here is the opening of the book with the main character, Julie Bonaventura, getting ready to go take the commuter train to downtown Chicago---

"A huge multi-colored strobe candle (which looks like a wax torch with a large hollow cardboard tube in the middle) held in place by the akimbo arms of a three-foot-tall, life-like, nude female plaster statue set high up on a dresser, flashed beautifully against the artfully painted dayglo mural on the bedroom wall.

"Julietta Bonaventura delicately placed a peacock feather in the bottom rubber band of her long, single braid and put her shiny, silver four-tiered earrings in each pierced ear. She pulled on her large, red, yellow, blue and green sunburst-patterned, tie dyed cotton baggies and picked out a fine white lace sleeveless top and a matching tie dyed chiffon scarf."

"We are stardust. We are golden. And we must get ourselves back to the garden......" (Joni Mitchell, Woodstock)

Julie faces many anti-hippie problems when her father gives her a converted garage/barn in central Illinois as a gift for her birthday. To top it all off, Winslow and Sarah (two underage runaway lovers) complicate things by showing up in the area in the midst of the attacks by two local farmer/millworkers. Sarah's parents are very conservative and add to the young people's problems by hiring private detectives to try and find their underage daughter. Travel with us to San Francisco and Woodstock.

Written sensitively and with background knowledge, Tie Dye is a good book to note the similarities of today to the stories of lives in the past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cozy Publishing
• Release date: Jun 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370473717

Zara Brooks-Watson

Zara Brooks-Watson is the pseudonym for Cathy Smith and cozy mystery writer Sophia Watson. Cathy Smith (Zara) lives in northern Maine, waiting out the long winters by writing cozies. She is also a poet and has a two chapbook published e-volume of photos and poetry -- "Waiting for the Sunrise" -- and is working on another one -- "And Then I Came Here..." all under her original name of Cathy Smith. She also writes the Silver Lake Cozy Mystery series (see silverlakemysteries.weebly.com) under her fictional sister-in-law's name of Sophia Watson. There are many short stories online written under Cathy Smith -- "Skipping Stones" -- "The Songs of Dolphin" -- and "The Bookstore Cat". Enjoy a large spectrum of reading from this author. She attended Boston University and Harvard and has been writing most of her life.

Book preview

Chapter One: Sweet Sixteen

Ahuge multi-colored strobe candle (which looks like a wax torch with a large hollow cardboard tube in the middle) held in place by the akimbo arms of a three-foot-tall, life-like, nude female plaster statue set high up on a dresser, flashed beautifully against the artfully painted dayglo mural on the bedroom wall.

Julietta Bonaventura delicately placed a peacock feather in the bottom rubber band of her long, single braid and put her shiny, silver four-tiered earrings in each pierced ear. She pulled on her large, red, yellow, blue and green sunburst-patterned, tie dyed cotton baggies and picked out a fine white lace sleeveless top and a matching tie dyed chiffon scarf.

She topped it all off with a woven Panama sun hat with a seagull feather stuck in the hatband. Thinking twice she also chose a wooden beaded necklace interspersed with turquoise beads and tiny Indian bells. She dabbed her wrists and neck with Patchouli oil which intensified the cloud of smoke from the huge stick of Patchouli incense in her room. Satisfied that she was seriously hippie chic, she packed her backpack with a tape recorder, Indian incense, a cotton coverlet from India, her tie-dyed blouses, shirts, floor length skirts, cotton bags and some of the marijuana from her garden neatly rolled inside sandwich bags and weighed to the ounce. She put on a jean jacket with a peace symbol sewn on the back underneath a rainbow.

She left the house and walked underneath a line of huge Elm trees towards the Burlington Northern train station two blocks away. Every day of the summer, Julie went downtown to Grant Park, a central meeting place of the hippie nation in the Chicago area. At her age, it was one of the few jobs she could get and make some real money. She would sit on her Indian coverlet on the grass in the cool shade of a big maple tree, burn incense and play her favorite tapes, attracting folks interested in her tie-dyed clothing and subtly finding out if they would also like some smoke.

On a good day, she could bring home 100 tax-free dollars or more, which was not bad for a fifteen-year-old in 1966. Not bad at all, and she expected that she could save quite a bit by the end of the summer. If her generous father did not buy her a car by the time she was sixteen, she could purchase her own. Even though her dad disapproved of hallucinogenics, she frequently procured LSD, Psilocybin and Mescaline for herself and to sell in the park. These drugs were popular semi-natural and legal street drugs at the time. Julie felt, from experience and street gossip, that these drugs were harmless when used in a friendly atmosphere. And they were non-addictive. They were usually ten dollars a hit. Her homegrown marijuana was $10 an ounce, loose. An ounce of dope could last a conservative smoker all month. A hit of acid lasted about 12 hours. Julie grew her own weed, but sometimes filched some of her dad's stash when she ran low. He did the same to her.

Vincente Bonaventura was Julietta's dad. He owned his own men's tailoring business and was a former employee of Sears Roebuck and Company catalog division located on the south side of Chicago across from the University of Chicago, in Hyde Park. He drove an MG and a Harley Davidson motorcycle. And, of course, being a tailor, was a very flashy, fancy dresser, not usually seen without a gold or red satin vest – unless he was repairing his vehicles, gardening or the like.

Originally, Vincente had come from the steamy, dark cypress bayous of Louisiana, his family being farmers in the area, selling their goods in places such as Mooringsport and Shreveport. Shreveport, even though located in the deep south, had small Slavic, Italian and Jewish communities. Mooringsport was the home of Huddie Ledbetter (aka Lead Belly), the famous African-American blues musician.

Julie boarded her train to downtown, heading towards the Canal Street exit of Union Station. She climbed up to the upper deck of the double decker train car where there were single seats next to the windows. She stuck her ticket in the holder at her feet. The conductor would be around to take and punch her ticket. All the conductors on this branch of the Burlington Northern were rather friendly black men. The station near her house was also in a hundred year old, suburban Chicago black neighborhood first populated by the families of early black railroad track workers when the track was first laid. It was an unusual neighborhood in that it had huge Victorian houses surrounded by large grassy yards. The residents of this neighborhood also had access to very good suburban schools. Julie's dad's house was in a tract home area with much smaller houses.

She dropped a hit of acid and began to watch the sunlight break into rainbows, swirling and dipping inside the train car. She hummed her favorite Joni Mitchell song. Bending her long braid over her shoulder, she played with the colors on her peacock feather.

She could walk from Union Station to Grant Park easily. And tripping, the walk would produce some spectacular fun in the sun, especially when she reached the shoreline of Lake Michigan and could play with the images coming up from the sparkling water.

Within an hour, the train pulled into Union Station and Julie disembarked. As she exited the huge, echoing train station, the scent from her Patchouli oil was intensified and seemed to billow up around her, making her smile to herself in the bright summer sunlight. As she reached the sidewalk, she started to skip, bouncing her backpack with each step and making other pedestrians either smile or frown at her hippiness. She felt exhilarated and flashed a two-fingered peace sign at either reaction.

It was way too hot to wear her jacket, so she stopped and took it off, stuffing it into her backpack. The cooler breezes found the patterns of holes in her lace top and blew through them, cooling her overheated body. She thought of stopping at the Art Institute and just walking around in the lobby to cool off even more in their air conditioning. She totally loved the metal statue there of Rodin's Thinker. But she wanted to get to her spot under her usual Maple tree and get set up early so she could start selling. She took another hit of acid to make sure she was tripping for most of the day.

When Julie reached Grant Park, she put her paisley, multi-colored coverlet down under a big, shady Maple, turned her tape deck on Tuesday Afternoon from her Days of Future Passed tape of the Moody Blues and lit a stick of musk incense, sticking the end into the ground. She carefully stacked her colorful tie-dyed clothing to display a variety of styles, which included her hand-sewn shoulder bags with dozens of embroidered little mirrors face up so that the silvered glass reflected in the sunlight. She rested back against the tree trunk and lit a joint. This was heaven, she thought as she surveyed the colorful crowd of hippies walking around and looking at all the vendors, having their own picnics, playing guitars and flutes, singing, peacefully smoking weed and laughing.

Within a half hour, she had scored over a dozen customers – including one couple that also bought two ounces of weed. She was flying. She thought, Oh, happy day...

Next to her, still under the shade of the same big tree, were her usual neighbors selling Indian and handcrafted jewelry – an over-weight, white girl with long, beautiful, shining, black hair and a small, demur baby named Bruno. Her boyfriend, and the baby's father, was a very ebullient black man that sometimes sang along sweetly and loudly to Julie's music. Their names were Sherrie and Bud. They had known Julie for over a year.

Between customers, Julie listened to her music and tatted lace. Bud wrote in his diary and Sherrie nursed and took care of the genial Bruno who smiled at everything and everybody. A smiling, curly-haired, pretty brown baby sold or way helped to sell all their wares – which was mostly handcrafted pottery made by Sherrie. They all felt the tiny Bruno was their best salesman and frequently made jokes about it.

On the other side of Julie were two gay men who lived close by on the the near North side along the shore of Lake Michigan. They sold huarache sandals, Japanese Bonsai trees and handcrafted terrariums – all popular upwardly mobile hippie items.

They never wore color matched clothing and both tended towards stripes, super-wide bell bottoms, scarves, polka dots and pink. They also wore too much jewelry, including earrings in both ears. Julie loved her neighbors to pieces. They were all kind and helpful – and never stopped being interesting and funny.

The two gay sandal and plant salesmen, Theo and Mason, always bought cold drinks for everyone later in the afternoon, whenever they took a break. A hug and a cold drink was just what Julie needed on a slow day – which this wasn't, by far. She rolled joints for all, except the baby...who acted stoned anyway and didn't need anything special to put on his show.

Bruno giggled loudly when Julie put on Puff (The Magic Dragon) by Peter, Paul and Mary.

Sherrie said, He really digs that song. He'll even clap his hands when he hears it sometimes.

The rest of the day rolled along slowly and pleasantly like a wide river, like the nearby DesPlaines river and its tributaries, one of which was in the Bonaventura's suburban township. Julie's lace shawl was almost finished by five o'clock. She had plans on tie dying it. Tie dyed cotton lace was super cool and would look seriously fine with her silver four-tiered earrings that hung low – from her ears to her shoulders, but not close enough to catch on her clothes.

Right about then, Julie packed up what was left of her wares and folded the coverlet, putting everything in her backpack. She hugged her friends and kissed little Bruno, put on her shades and sun hat and started on her way home. 

__________

Julietta walked towards Union Station. This was one of the longest and hottest days she could ever remember. The way to the train station was a sizzling hotplate made of concrete – flat and unrelenting. Julie was still tripping, which was fine underneath the sweet, cool shade of her favorite hundred year old Maple where she had hidden, obscured from the vicious waves of heat surrounding her.

She had made a record amount of money and enjoyed the company of a fine crowd of musicians, fellow vendors and customers.

But now, she had one, fiery, unshaded block of high rise office buildings to walk past before she got to the train station. She felt like she was crawling on her hands and knees. That block was being traversed that slowly. It seemed as if this block was miles long. She knew, somehow, the devil sun would burn her up and evaporate her entire being, soul and all. She began to run.

That felt better as the breezes from her speed relieved her admittedly hallucinogenically enhanced discomfort. The sensation was everything short of a bad trip. Something she had never had and did not ever want. She was now, though, Rodin's peaceful Runner, a complement to the Chicago Art Institute's huge metal Rodin statue, The Thinker.

Julie became a bird. Her sweat evaporated in the rush of the wind. Tripping made her feel like she really was a bird, like she could hear her wings moving behind each shoulder.

She reached the revolving brass-framed glass doors of the train station and could feel the heaven-sent air conditioning whooshing in between each revolution of the multiple doors in the rotation as she entered. The station was at least twenty degrees cooler than the suffocating Chicago summer sun that had tried to smother her outside. She sat down on a wooden bench. She stretched and got up to get a sip of water from the blessedly cold water cooler, which Julie knew was the answer to her prayers made directly to any God that would listen. Her breath had reached past the scattered and thin clouds, importuning any Higher Being interested in listening to her for some relief from the heat.

Let it rain, she had pleaded, knowing full well she was inconsequential in her influence upon any Olympus where the Gods probably still dwelt ... for all her hallucinating mind knew. And, as anyone who ever did LSD knows, one could well feel that one was in direct contact with the Almighty.

Julie heard a crack of thunder just as she dug into her Tupperware container of melty stuffed shells. She bought a cold Coke in wonder at the smell and sound of the rain from a series of open train docks at the end of the station. She ate her garlic bread sitting at the right hand of God. She felt the wooden bench next to her. There were no Olympians there. Drat!

Union Station was not Mt. Olympus, she knew that. Her imagination was a watercolor of dreams, but no hallucination could make her lose her grip on where she actually was, where she was actually going or the real, physical things she had to do. But, despite the extremely melted cheese in her pasta shells, they tasted divine. That was hallucinatory, but wonderful. The Coke was a spritz from heaven.

In between all of that, her dreams painted her senses in wide LSD-type swaths of auditory and visual waves of rather pleasant inspiration and unusual movement. All this deep thinking aside, Julie frequently sampled her own wares (in terms of the drugs she sold). She felt one needed to stay on top of the quality and purity of said wares. Her own wholesale dealer was a saint and an old high school friend, but she still felt the need to keep checking up on her.

Besides, she liked tripping. Her dad never caught her except once, when he cried, afraid for her safety. She just reassured him that hallucinogens would not cause genetic damage and thought it best to let it go at that. She also told him that high THC content in marijuana (like in Vietnamese natural) could cause similar hallucinations. That made him more assured, since he was such a pot-head himself.

All Power to the people! Julie jumped, then laughed. It was just the zillionth small protest march she had seen in the heart of the city. Her train was due in twenty minutes, so she had time to go outside and take a look. Another shout went up from the front of the station. It sounded like maybe a hundred people or slightly less. There was an echo resounding around the cathedral-like ceiling of the train station. The rain had lessened to a drizzle. It had stopped as quickly as it had started, a Chicago area phenomenon.

Maybe the echo was just the acid she had dropped. Julietta liked demonstrations, they were like parties with a higher purpose. Like New Year's Eve. Most of them were peaceful with no arrests or altercations. It usually did not hurt to check them out and even yell a loud, enthusiastic, Right on! It felt good. This freedom felt good. Julie liked most of the protest movements. She took a dislike to the violent ones, though. She and her dad, Vincente, were natural pacifists.

They had both experienced Jim Crow, being southerners originally. Julie remembered vividly being confused as to what bathroom she could use while continuing to chat with newly found black friends. Both Vince and Julie hated racial segregation.

She would have to hide her tripping from her father, who worried about it. That was not that hard to do, since she and her dad got along really well and she could joke with him and put him in a good mood. They were the only family that they had here in Chicago. She had a large, extended family down south, in Louisiana, New York City and Miami Beach, but that was far from Chicago. Her dad was her best friend, so she could go easy on him and his fears about hallucinogens.

__________

Vincente Bonaventura met his daughter at the door of their house that day, rubbing his hands together with a broad, white-toothed smile. Julie knew what it was immediately. Tomorrow was her sixteenth birthday. Her birthdays were always a big celebration with her dad. The delight that spread over her father's face belied the surprises he had in store for her. Julie laughed and ran to him, giving him a bear hug.

What is it, Pop? asked his daughter, as if she didn't know. She thought, must be a big one this year! Dad looks like he swallowed a live fifty pound big-mouthed bass whole, let alone a guppy!

Julie knew how to drive. Her father had