Furcalow’s pad isn’t as remote as the vineyard. You head south past Little River on a two-lane that flirts with the surf, weaving through the low hills like a canyon glider. You’re relieved to have survived the night, but an equal sense of trepidation rides on your shoulders. It turns to icy fear as you pull into the driveway to find that Sheriff Green has already arrived and he isn’t alone.
The villa is set on a wide rise overlooking the ocean. The normally picturesque view is unimpressive behind the stenciled doors of half a dozen cop cars, including an unmarked Explorer with federal plates. You consider turning around but the Sheriff spots you from the veranda and hurries over. His scowl is not comforting. “I’m afraid you won’t be able to meet here today,” he says. “Crime scene.” Seeing the question on your face, he tells you, “Nothing to do with product. Homicide.”
“What are the feds doing here?”
“Looking for links. There were two murders last night: this one and Fonzerelli. Turns out he was a fed, been working undercover here for years. He was DEA, but reported directly to the Justice Department. Word is, his job was to await and prevent mafia involvement.” You’re rendered mute by the news, which is groundbreaking on several levels. Green mistakes your expression for grief and places a comforting hand on your shoulder. “I had Maggie go ahead and reserve a room at the Gardens for your meeting. Been sending everyone that way. You’d better move along now, wouldn’t want to be late.”
He’s right. You head back to town. The scenery is no less panoramic, but you hardly notice it. Mendocino is a tiny berg perched high on a rocky shore. It’s a trendy place with galleries and cafes; the patios of the strip are packed with sun-kissed carousers. You coast slowly through the tourist throng and down a steep hill to the only hotel in town: Sweetwater Gardens. It’s a vast but charming structure sprawling over two manicured acres.
You stroll through the wide front gate into a courtyard that looks like Eden: pristine, colorful, and somehow wild despite the care put into the placement of every blossom. Flanked by colorful paper lamps, long tables stand nestled between imported trees. You walk along a wooden terrace with more tables and a large Jacuzzi that has been custom-crafted to look like a natural pool. Through an enormous window, you see the restaurant interior: richly decorated but, at this hour, entirely empty of appointment. There’s no hostess on duty, but the guy stocking the cabana directs you to one of the larger suites. Inside, fifteen gray metal chairs look out of place among luxurious mahogany furnishings, rich paneling, and a cobbled floor. Most of the apartment is open to the sky. Some of your associates are present, milling around or picking through the breakfast that’s been laid out on the wet bar. One of them is lounging in the hot tub. He flashes you a weary but ironic smile.
“Another day in paradise…”
The villa is set on a wide rise overlooking the ocean. The normally picturesque view is unimpressive behind the stenciled doors of half a dozen cop cars, including an unmarked Explorer with federal plates. You consider turning around but the Sheriff spots you from the veranda and hurries over. His scowl is not comforting. “I’m afraid you won’t be able to meet here today,” he says. “Crime scene.” Seeing the question on your face, he tells you, “Nothing to do with product. Homicide.”
“What are the feds doing here?”
“Looking for links. There were two murders last night: this one and Fonzerelli. Turns out he was a fed, been working undercover here for years. He was DEA, but reported directly to the Justice Department. Word is, his job was to await and prevent mafia involvement.” You’re rendered mute by the news, which is groundbreaking on several levels. Green mistakes your expression for grief and places a comforting hand on your shoulder. “I had Maggie go ahead and reserve a room at the Gardens for your meeting. Been sending everyone that way. You’d better move along now, wouldn’t want to be late.”
He’s right. You head back to town. The scenery is no less panoramic, but you hardly notice it. Mendocino is a tiny berg perched high on a rocky shore. It’s a trendy place with galleries and cafes; the patios of the strip are packed with sun-kissed carousers. You coast slowly through the tourist throng and down a steep hill to the only hotel in town: Sweetwater Gardens. It’s a vast but charming structure sprawling over two manicured acres.
You stroll through the wide front gate into a courtyard that looks like Eden: pristine, colorful, and somehow wild despite the care put into the placement of every blossom. Flanked by colorful paper lamps, long tables stand nestled between imported trees. You walk along a wooden terrace with more tables and a large Jacuzzi that has been custom-crafted to look like a natural pool. Through an enormous window, you see the restaurant interior: richly decorated but, at this hour, entirely empty of appointment. There’s no hostess on duty, but the guy stocking the cabana directs you to one of the larger suites. Inside, fifteen gray metal chairs look out of place among luxurious mahogany furnishings, rich paneling, and a cobbled floor. Most of the apartment is open to the sky. Some of your associates are present, milling around or picking through the breakfast that’s been laid out on the wet bar. One of them is lounging in the hot tub. He flashes you a weary but ironic smile.
“Another day in paradise…”
Furcalow has been shot. He was a
Vanilla Townie
.
The Fonz has been shot. He was the
The Fonz has been shot. He was the
town’s Jailkeeper
.
Day two begins!
Day two begins!
With 15 alive, it takes 8 to lynch. The deadline is May 10, 13:00 PDT (GMT-7).
(Except I don't actually like it. 
