It’s not often I take time off to beachcomb. But the weather was nearly perfect, my computer was in the repair shop ostensibly being whipped into submission and obedience, I’d actually refilled my Chevy’s gas tank, and in my hands at last was an English translation of Wiikiam Wobjhsj’s latest mystery, Das Geheimnis der Mördermuscheln, or, The Mystery of the Killer Clams. And what better place to read that particular novel than at the seashore, more specifically Cabo Escondido.
In spite of the glorious day, there were no people at Cabo Escondido. Yes, yes, I know that it was the middle of the week and it was nearing the end of October and the basking masses were at school and at work. Beyond all that, this particular beach is not one of the well-traveled spots, because it is not near any main highway or even any secondary highway. Its only access is by way of a residential road only one notch up from a cow path. Don’t try to find it. In the state of California there are 3.1416 gazillion of these. Its real name is not Cabo Escondido, by the way. I decline to say for fear that very soon—tomorrow—a glut of hidden-beach groupies would descend upon it like locusts and thus ruin beyond recognition and forever the very reason why it is so special to me, namely: nobody knows how to find it except the locals and a handful of outsiders who know how to keep their mouths shut, and therefore nobody kicks sand in my face or anybody else’s. Sound selfish? You bet!
But none of this is germane to the story. I only mention it because there was not another living soul on this beach, and most people who’ve ever been to a California beach would otherwise call me a bare-faced liar.
I took along a beach umbrella, a portable mesh recliner, a beach bag with accoutrements, food and drink, a couple of towels and, of course, my book, and I set up camp a few feet above the high tide line. I then stripped down to my trunks, t-shirt, shades and a floppy old white beach hat I’ve had for years, plopped down on the recliner, gazed at the Pacific Ocean and the surf pounding the shore for a few minutes, pulled out a bottle of ginger beer, opened The Mystery of the Killer Clams, and began to read.
I don’t know why Wobjhsj does it, but his mysteries never seem to have a thing to do with their titles, unless you are alert to detect the tie-in. If you aren’t, then you must re-read the story, and then you will finally see the very subtle clues throughout. If even then you don’t see it, he’s still quite entertaining, and you won’t be disappointed—though you might feel annoyed with yourself that you couldn’t figure out the connection. But fret not; Wobjhsj has a blog that discreetly explains so you won’t have to embarrass yourself by asking someone else to tell you.
Wobjhsj is not a German name, by the way. His blog states he was born in Frazjpillotpol, Lower Slobbovia, perhaps in 1951, but after his father went outside their primitive sod house one frigid spring morning to take a leak and never returned—ostensibly killed and devoured by famished polar bears—his mother said she’d had enough of the godforsaken place, and the two resettled in Wärmere Stadt, in the Schwarzwald region of Germany. There they thrived, his mother soon remarried and had two more children, and Wiikiam Wobjhsj fell in love with writing. To date, he has penned twelve mystery novels, two histories on Lower Slobbovia, and is a regular contributor of short stories and essays to numerous magazines in Germany, Austria, Belgium, Liechtenstein, Luxembourg, Namibia, and Switzerland.
Again, this has little to do with my story, but at the same time I think it only fair that readers know what drove me out to Cabo Escondido that day in the first place. Chances are darned good that I wouldn’t have made the trip had it not been for grand weather, a recalcitrant computer, a full tank of gas, and an English translation of Das Geheimnis der Mördermuscheln. And had there been no trip, there would have been no mysterious box and, ergo, no story.
After reading three or four chapters, I paused for lunch. I’d prepared a couple of my fabulous ham sandwiches. I say fabulous only because they’re so good that I eat them practically every day, finishing them off each time with “mighty tasty, old Steve.” Some might regard this eccentric or obsessive or even suicidal. Call it what you may, they are still damn good sandwiches. Consider the ingredients alone:
- bread, 2 slices, 100% whole wheat, or any variations thereof that do not include white bread (rye is fine, too)
- butter or margarine (butter is better, even if it will allegedly kill you)
- mayonnaise (real or lite; regardless of its inane spelling, lite may be healthier for you, but the real stuff tastes better)
- ham (yeah, yeah, I know…)
- spicy mustard (I like mine spiced with horseradish)
- medium to hot salsa
- bell pepper slices (green, red, yellow, gold, or orange)
- tomato slices
- jalapeño pepper thin slices (optional)
- kosher dill pickle slices
- green leaf lettuce
Add some tortilla chips on the side and some ginger beer or genuine sarsaparilla, and you’ve got yourself a meal.
It was after lunch that I decided to walk along the beach a bit and wet my toes. All the movies and TV ads where a beach scene is required, the guy is never alone; he’s walking arm in arm with his wife, his girl friend, a total stranger, and/or his dog. A variation of this scene is where the girl never walks alone; she’s wandering along the shore arm in arm with her husband, her boyfriend, a total stranger, and/or her dog. Now and again there are children involved as well. I had none of these props, though I don’t deny that the scene is attractive. Be that as it may, I walked alone and let the waves lap my toes and the mole crabs tickle the soles of my feet as they hastily burrowed into the wet sand to escape. I was daydreaming about a major scene in Wobjhsj’s novel where his lead female character, the voluptuous, decidedly attractive, and deadly Sonja Schleiermacher, is calmly sipping hot clam chowder from a ladle after dispatching the chef in her grisly signature way, when I stepped on something hard. At first I thought it was a stone, or even a clamshell, but as I lifted my foot I saw instead what appeared to be the corner of a box poking out of the sand. I crouched down and dug it out, carefully washing the grit away with seawater, and then carried it back to my little beach domain to examine it more closely.
It was exquisite and looked very old. I recognized it as probably one of those Anglo-Indian boxes, popular in English society from the middle eighteenth and throughout the nineteen centuries. They were initially made in India for the English residents who either brought or sent them back to England. They came to be highly prized, and later were imported more commercially. How did I know all this? Well, I don’t watch PBS’s “Antiques Roadshow” for nothing, you know. I’m always on the lookout for something ancient and valuable. And that meant that I watched that silly program in the hopes that one fine day I might just come across one of the very items those antiques appraisers coo over so avidly. And here, at last, I’d found an object I was almost certain I’d seen on one of the shows, probably the BBC version. I seem to recall a nasal, snooty-sounding accent prevalent among London pedants and British character actors employed in American movies requiring nasal, snooty-sounding English pedants. But I digress. Again. This was an Anglo-Indian box made in sandalwood and veneered in what seemed to be tortoiseshell, although I recollected that they also came in ivory, horn, or quills. This particular one was rectangular, about seven or eight inches long, six inches wide, and three inches deep. It stood on a narrowly protruding base, and the lid, which was flat, also protruded slightly. Engraved along the outer ridges of the top of the box and along the sides were engraved repeated images of an ancient warrior with a spear and shield, and fierce fangs. Most ominous. And exciting.
I found the box in excellent condition, which seemed rather odd if it had in effect been in the ocean for any length of time before being washed ashore. Of course, I supposed that it was also possible that it had chanced upon this beach far more recently and had had no time to deteriorate. It appeared to be hermetically sealed, as the wood and veneer’s surface were either lacquered or perhaps coated with high-gloss polyurethane. I could see no way to get inside without breaking it open.
I gave the box a shake, and distinctly felt something bounce around inside loosely. Whatever it was, it did not appear to be hard. However, I seemed to have triggered some kind of action, because I heard what I imagined to be a faint rhythmic sound. Was this a music box, I wondered. And why not? I knew that they were manufactured for many purposes. I brought the box up and held it against my ear. The hair on the back of my neck and along my arms began to rise as I heard a tiny, tiny voice from within singing:
Oh, I wish I were an Oscar Mayer wiener
That is what I’d truly like to be
‘Cause if I were an Oscar Mayer wiener
Everyone would be in love with me!
Sorry. I just couldn’t resist.
Uneasy Rider... travels & writings 