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Douglas Quinn is a talented author of mystery/suspense, and this week I am featuring his interview with the main character of the Webb Sawyer Mysteries.
Douglas Quinn interviews Webb Sawyer of Blue Heron Marsh.
I got up at 3:30am so I could take a quick shower and shave, get dressed and, by 4:00am, hopped into my Honda Element to make the hour and a half trip to Nags Head, North Carolina to make my agreed 6:00am interview with Webb Sawyer. I wondered why he picked such an ungodly hour. Just to be ornery, I guessed. When he was in a mood, he had that reputation.
A local newspaper, The Daily Advocate, had asked me to do a followup on Webb Sawyer after his involvement in a murder case that went awry. The newspaper blamed the City and County Attorney’s office for what had happened. Isn’t that the way things are? Someone always has to take the hit. Especially when they don’t really know all the facts.
The editor wanted me to write it as an article. I said the only way I’d do it was as an interview. I thought the readers would get more out of it. He didn’t like the idea. I kept selling. The editor finally capitulated.
Webb Sawyer lives in Blue Heron Marsh, just to the south of the causeway between Whale Bone Junction and Roanoke Island. I say in Blue Heron Marsh because his stilt home is actually out there in the marshes.
I gave myself an extra twenty minutes or so to boat out to his place. He’d left a skiff for me to use. It was tied up on the docks behind his friend’s, Brant Cloninger’s, place of business, the Whalebone Junction Bait and Tackle Shop. Webb’s 1986 powder blue Ford Ranger with rust lines and rivet holes down each side, where chrome stripping used to reside, was parked along the east side of Brant’s shop. He calls the rust bucket Trusty Rusty. Brant was there early and came out to say hello. He was alone, which was why I had the task of motoring out to Webb’s house by myself.
As I approached, I saw Sawyer on the upper front deck of a one-story stilt house that appeared very well cared for. Webb Sawyer was about six feet tall and solidly built but not muscular. He had a strong square jaw and rugged features that I wouldn’t call handsome, but certainly there was something about him that made me think he attracted the ladies. His mouth smiled, but his eyes were piercing. I knew he valued his privacy more than anything and it had taken some doing to get him to agree to the interview.
I started up the stairs from the landing when he said, “You might as well stay down there. We’re going out in the marshes and catching us some flounder.” So that’s why he’d wanted me here at 6:00am. His voice was baritone, the northeastern North Carolina brogue evident but not predominant.
We shook hands. Then, while we got the gear into the skiff–the very one I’d brought to the marsh house–I decided to begin the interview. I turned on my recorder:
DQ: How long have you lived our here, Webb?
WS: My parents had bought the place some time ago, when I was a kid. (He paused to think about it) Must have been about thirty-five or so years ago as I’m in my forties now. They used to come out here to get away from the rigors of farming. Mostly in the winter, after the winter wheat was in, and just before the first crops were being planted at the end of February. Dad liked coming here more than mother because he liked to fish and she didn’t. But sometimes she’d talk him into coming in the late spring or early fall, just to get out of the house in Weeksville. After my parents died, I inherited the place and decided to live here after I got out of the Army.
DQ: I’m almost afraid to ask you this, Webb, because I know it’s a touchy subject, but there was some trouble at the end of your career and you retired under some inauspicious circumstances. Care to talk about it?
WS: Not really. Let’s just say that I was lucky to have a friend in high places who got me out of trouble. I had to do some time with the Army shrinks at Fayetteville before they’d give me my honorable discharge.
The skiff ready to go, we pushed off and Webb guided us into the marshes around his stilt house. No matter where we went, the house loomed nearby. When we reached a spot he seemed to like, he anchored down and showed me how to bait a hook for flounder. He told me that sometimes for bait he tries narrow strip bait from the white belly section of other flounder. This time he brought along some small bucktail lures to start with and said that, if the artificial lures didn’t work, we’d go with minnows. We were using lightweight torpedo floats, placed about two feet ahead of the hook, and rods with a sensitive tip and a light sinker so, he said, we could feel the flounder’s bite. It was all Greek to me. I’d been fishing before but I was pretty much a hook and worm man.
DQ: How about we get some softball questions out of the way?
WS: Sure.
DQ: Some say you’re a beer snob. Is that true and, if so, what do you drink?
WS: I drink Grolsch. It’s the only beer worth my palate. If I’m forced to drink something else, meaning I’m really desperate, I’ll deign to swallow either Heineken or, the Lords of Fishing forbid, Bass Ale. A fishing buddy who owns a restaurant in the Uwharries cooks his bass in Bass Ale. I’ll get him to change. One of these days.
Not likely, I thought. Regarding the Uwharries, I had to look that one up. He was talking about a National Forest in the middle of North Carolina.
DQ: What about hard liquor?
WS: Give me Jack Daniel Black Label. Everything else is $#I!. Oops. Can I say that?
DQ: Don’t worry. I’ll edit it out. How about this one? Maria Salem at the Java Hut in Elizabeth City tells me you will only drink Snickerdoodle coffee. Doesn’t that ruin your macho image?
WS: Geeze! Did she tell you how many times I go to the bathroom when I’m there, too?
DQ: Moving on (laughing). I understand that you were once married. What happened with that? And do you think you will ever get married again?
WS: (A wyr smile) I was married. It happened during my impetuous youth. It was a rash decision and a stupid mistake. Well, I’ll qualify stupid mistake. One good thing did come from it. I have a son named Preston. He lives with his mother and a stepfather. (hesitation) You want more? (I nodded) I met her at a bar near base. Her name was Claire. I don’t recommend trolling bars frequented by soldiers for the love of your life. To make a long story short, she got tired of my being away all the time and not having much money and took up with someone else. She ended up moving to California where she married a doctor. It provided the security and money she was after. She got custody of Preston. I got visitation rights. Whenever I was back in the states. I wasn’t back that often. In retrospect, I guess I don’t really blame her for moving on.
At that moment I actually got a strike. The flounder lies buried in the sandy bottoms, waiting patiently for something interesting to move by. So, as Webb had instructed, I’d cast out and keep the bait moving slowly, first in one location, then another. The flounder’s bite is light, which is why Webb had provided me with a rod with a sensitive tip. I gave a sharp, short tug and it took. I was elated when I brought the little flat, brown fish beside the skiff. Webb scooped it up with his net. When I looked at him, Webb was shaking his head in disbelief. He told me he hoped I realized that I had to clean my own catch. When I asked if I had to cook it, too, he said, “Hell no! I’m not letting you ruin a good meal.” We both laughed.
DQ: What I really wanted to ask you, Webb, was about the case you got mixed up with over in Elizabeth City. I thought you were done with investigations of any kind since you’d left the Army.
WS: As you know, I was a military investigator, mainly in a counter-terrorism unit. I liked what I did. But I also became disillusioned about the end results. The justice part of it. The Europeans don’t believe in the death sentence and a lot of these guys were getting away with light sentences. It made me sick.
DQ: So, how’d you end up getting involved with the Elizabeth City murder?
WS: I was duped into it. I was just trying to do someone a favor and the first thing you know, I’m right in the middle of it all. Caused a lot of trouble between me and my girlfriend, too.
DQ: Your girlfriend?
WS: A very nice lady by the name of Nan Ftorek. She owns the Shallowbag Pub over in Manteo. Originally, she asked me to look into it. One of her employees knew a friend of the accused. That sort of thing (rolling his eyes and shaking his head).
At that moment I got another strike. Webb groaned. He’d moved the skiff twice and still hadn’t hit anything himself. I soon reeled it in and Webb brought it aboard with his net. It was another good-sized one. Webb tried to change the subject to fishing, but I persisted with the previous question.
DQ: We all know from reading the headlines what happened, but what I’m more interested in was your part in it all.
WS: (laughing) You think what was in the headlines was what actually happened? They don’t know diddily squat about what really went on. And if they did, no one was going to believe it anyway.
DQ: Do you think Clara Zemeinewski was guilty or innocent?
WS: Guess it doesn’t matter to anyone now. She’s dead, as much a victim as her murdered father. And, her mother’s been awhile in the grave so fortunately she’s no longer around to know about it. (shaking his head) Let me just say this, Mr. Quinn. Sometimes justice has a funny way of evening everything out. Unfortunately, it doesn’t bring back the innocent and the dead. One thing for sure, sooner or later, one way or the other, the bad guys get their due. And that’s all I have to say about it.
A local newspaper, The Daily Advocate, had asked me to do a followup on Webb Sawyer after his involvement in a murder case that went awry. The newspaper blamed the City and County Attorney’s office for what had happened. Isn’t that the way things are? Someone always has to take the hit. Especially when they don’t really know all the facts.
The editor wanted me to write it as an article. I said the only way I’d do it was as an interview. I thought the readers would get more out of it. He didn’t like the idea. I kept selling. The editor finally capitulated.
Webb Sawyer lives in Blue Heron Marsh, just to the south of the causeway between Whale Bone Junction and Roanoke Island. I say in Blue Heron Marsh because his stilt home is actually out there in the marshes.
I gave myself an extra twenty minutes or so to boat out to his place. He’d left a skiff for me to use. It was tied up on the docks behind his friend’s, Brant Cloninger’s, place of business, the Whalebone Junction Bait and Tackle Shop. Webb’s 1986 powder blue Ford Ranger with rust lines and rivet holes down each side, where chrome stripping used to reside, was parked along the east side of Brant’s shop. He calls the rust bucket Trusty Rusty. Brant was there early and came out to say hello. He was alone, which was why I had the task of motoring out to Webb’s house by myself.
As I approached, I saw Sawyer on the upper front deck of a one-story stilt house that appeared very well cared for. Webb Sawyer was about six feet tall and solidly built but not muscular. He had a strong square jaw and rugged features that I wouldn’t call handsome, but certainly there was something about him that made me think he attracted the ladies. His mouth smiled, but his eyes were piercing. I knew he valued his privacy more than anything and it had taken some doing to get him to agree to the interview.
I started up the stairs from the landing when he said, “You might as well stay down there. We’re going out in the marshes and catching us some flounder.” So that’s why he’d wanted me here at 6:00am. His voice was baritone, the northeastern North Carolina brogue evident but not predominant.
We shook hands. Then, while we got the gear into the skiff–the very one I’d brought to the marsh house–I decided to begin the interview. I turned on my recorder:
DQ: How long have you lived our here, Webb?
WS: My parents had bought the place some time ago, when I was a kid. (He paused to think about it) Must have been about thirty-five or so years ago as I’m in my forties now. They used to come out here to get away from the rigors of farming. Mostly in the winter, after the winter wheat was in, and just before the first crops were being planted at the end of February. Dad liked coming here more than mother because he liked to fish and she didn’t. But sometimes she’d talk him into coming in the late spring or early fall, just to get out of the house in Weeksville. After my parents died, I inherited the place and decided to live here after I got out of the Army.
DQ: I’m almost afraid to ask you this, Webb, because I know it’s a touchy subject, but there was some trouble at the end of your career and you retired under some inauspicious circumstances. Care to talk about it?
WS: Not really. Let’s just say that I was lucky to have a friend in high places who got me out of trouble. I had to do some time with the Army shrinks at Fayetteville before they’d give me my honorable discharge.
The skiff ready to go, we pushed off and Webb guided us into the marshes around his stilt house. No matter where we went, the house loomed nearby. When we reached a spot he seemed to like, he anchored down and showed me how to bait a hook for flounder. He told me that sometimes for bait he tries narrow strip bait from the white belly section of other flounder. This time he brought along some small bucktail lures to start with and said that, if the artificial lures didn’t work, we’d go with minnows. We were using lightweight torpedo floats, placed about two feet ahead of the hook, and rods with a sensitive tip and a light sinker so, he said, we could feel the flounder’s bite. It was all Greek to me. I’d been fishing before but I was pretty much a hook and worm man.
DQ: How about we get some softball questions out of the way?
WS: Sure.
DQ: Some say you’re a beer snob. Is that true and, if so, what do you drink?
WS: I drink Grolsch. It’s the only beer worth my palate. If I’m forced to drink something else, meaning I’m really desperate, I’ll deign to swallow either Heineken or, the Lords of Fishing forbid, Bass Ale. A fishing buddy who owns a restaurant in the Uwharries cooks his bass in Bass Ale. I’ll get him to change. One of these days.
Not likely, I thought. Regarding the Uwharries, I had to look that one up. He was talking about a National Forest in the middle of North Carolina.
DQ: What about hard liquor?
WS: Give me Jack Daniel Black Label. Everything else is $#I!. Oops. Can I say that?
DQ: Don’t worry. I’ll edit it out. How about this one? Maria Salem at the Java Hut in Elizabeth City tells me you will only drink Snickerdoodle coffee. Doesn’t that ruin your macho image?
WS: Geeze! Did she tell you how many times I go to the bathroom when I’m there, too?
DQ: Moving on (laughing). I understand that you were once married. What happened with that? And do you think you will ever get married again?
WS: (A wyr smile) I was married. It happened during my impetuous youth. It was a rash decision and a stupid mistake. Well, I’ll qualify stupid mistake. One good thing did come from it. I have a son named Preston. He lives with his mother and a stepfather. (hesitation) You want more? (I nodded) I met her at a bar near base. Her name was Claire. I don’t recommend trolling bars frequented by soldiers for the love of your life. To make a long story short, she got tired of my being away all the time and not having much money and took up with someone else. She ended up moving to California where she married a doctor. It provided the security and money she was after. She got custody of Preston. I got visitation rights. Whenever I was back in the states. I wasn’t back that often. In retrospect, I guess I don’t really blame her for moving on.
At that moment I actually got a strike. The flounder lies buried in the sandy bottoms, waiting patiently for something interesting to move by. So, as Webb had instructed, I’d cast out and keep the bait moving slowly, first in one location, then another. The flounder’s bite is light, which is why Webb had provided me with a rod with a sensitive tip. I gave a sharp, short tug and it took. I was elated when I brought the little flat, brown fish beside the skiff. Webb scooped it up with his net. When I looked at him, Webb was shaking his head in disbelief. He told me he hoped I realized that I had to clean my own catch. When I asked if I had to cook it, too, he said, “Hell no! I’m not letting you ruin a good meal.” We both laughed.
DQ: What I really wanted to ask you, Webb, was about the case you got mixed up with over in Elizabeth City. I thought you were done with investigations of any kind since you’d left the Army.
WS: As you know, I was a military investigator, mainly in a counter-terrorism unit. I liked what I did. But I also became disillusioned about the end results. The justice part of it. The Europeans don’t believe in the death sentence and a lot of these guys were getting away with light sentences. It made me sick.
DQ: So, how’d you end up getting involved with the Elizabeth City murder?
WS: I was duped into it. I was just trying to do someone a favor and the first thing you know, I’m right in the middle of it all. Caused a lot of trouble between me and my girlfriend, too.
DQ: Your girlfriend?
WS: A very nice lady by the name of Nan Ftorek. She owns the Shallowbag Pub over in Manteo. Originally, she asked me to look into it. One of her employees knew a friend of the accused. That sort of thing (rolling his eyes and shaking his head).
At that moment I got another strike. Webb groaned. He’d moved the skiff twice and still hadn’t hit anything himself. I soon reeled it in and Webb brought it aboard with his net. It was another good-sized one. Webb tried to change the subject to fishing, but I persisted with the previous question.
DQ: We all know from reading the headlines what happened, but what I’m more interested in was your part in it all.
WS: (laughing) You think what was in the headlines was what actually happened? They don’t know diddily squat about what really went on. And if they did, no one was going to believe it anyway.
DQ: Do you think Clara Zemeinewski was guilty or innocent?
WS: Guess it doesn’t matter to anyone now. She’s dead, as much a victim as her murdered father. And, her mother’s been awhile in the grave so fortunately she’s no longer around to know about it. (shaking his head) Let me just say this, Mr. Quinn. Sometimes justice has a funny way of evening everything out. Unfortunately, it doesn’t bring back the innocent and the dead. One thing for sure, sooner or later, one way or the other, the bad guys get their due. And that’s all I have to say about it.
DQ: Okey dokey. Sure has been fun fishing with you, Webb.
I decided to shoot him one last question. Catch him off balance.
DQ: By the way, do you have or carry a weapon?
WS: (snorting) Can’t say whether I do or I don’t. But I can tell you this. I like dill pickles. I like ‘em a lot. I usually ask for extra with my sandwich order.
DQ: (laughing) Enough said about that, then. Anything else you’d like to tell me?
WS: Well, I have a tattoo of an eye inside two curved lines, sorta like the CBS logo, on my right upper thigh, even with my privates. Got me in trouble once when another woman mentioned it to my girlfriend.
DQ: On that note, I think we’ll call it quits.
WS: Good idea.
I thanked Webb for his time and asked if he’d mind running me back to the causeway in his skiff.
“Not until you clean those fish,” he said. “And you will stay for dinner. Unless you’d like to swim back.” He laughed at his own little joke. We took the fish over to the cleaning table where he gave me a lesson in filleting. It would be Grolsch and pan-fried flounder with a side of slaw. I couldn’t complain at all.
In closing–and I’m sure this will be edited out–I’ve got one last thing to say about Webb Sawyer. The guy can be a pain in the ass, but he sure is a likeable fellow.
Douglas Quinn is the author of two suspense/thrillers, The Catalan Gambit and The Spanish Game. His latest novel, Blue Heron Marsh, is the first book in the Webb Sawyer Mystery Series. The prologue for the second Webb Sawyer book, Pelican Point, appears at the back of Blue Heron Marsh. Pelican Point is in progress and is expected to be released in 2009.
This is the third article in Douglas Quinn’s four week Virtual Book Tour, which began on Sunday, January 13th, 2008. Check the Official Douglas Quinn Web Site for details and the schedule. Douglas Quinn encourages your interaction and participation in this tour and with this article in particular. If you are a member of a group or a blog where this article is posted, please direct your comments and questions for Douglas Quinn through the group and/or blog and he will, in turn, answer you in general and/or in person. Douglas Quinn looks forward to your active participation.
To find out more about Douglas Quinn and his work you may go to his Web Site at www.douglasquinn.com, at his Crimespace Page at www.crimespace.ning.com/profile/obxwriter and at his Gather Page at www.obxwriter.gather.com.
Blue Heron Marsh and other books by Douglas Quinn may be ordered through retail book stores and online via www.amazon.comhttp://www.amazon.com, ,
www.barnesandnoble.com and other online booksellers.
I decided to shoot him one last question. Catch him off balance.
DQ: By the way, do you have or carry a weapon?
WS: (snorting) Can’t say whether I do or I don’t. But I can tell you this. I like dill pickles. I like ‘em a lot. I usually ask for extra with my sandwich order.
DQ: (laughing) Enough said about that, then. Anything else you’d like to tell me?
WS: Well, I have a tattoo of an eye inside two curved lines, sorta like the CBS logo, on my right upper thigh, even with my privates. Got me in trouble once when another woman mentioned it to my girlfriend.
DQ: On that note, I think we’ll call it quits.
WS: Good idea.
I thanked Webb for his time and asked if he’d mind running me back to the causeway in his skiff.
“Not until you clean those fish,” he said. “And you will stay for dinner. Unless you’d like to swim back.” He laughed at his own little joke. We took the fish over to the cleaning table where he gave me a lesson in filleting. It would be Grolsch and pan-fried flounder with a side of slaw. I couldn’t complain at all.
In closing–and I’m sure this will be edited out–I’ve got one last thing to say about Webb Sawyer. The guy can be a pain in the ass, but he sure is a likeable fellow.
Douglas Quinn is the author of two suspense/thrillers, The Catalan Gambit and The Spanish Game. His latest novel, Blue Heron Marsh, is the first book in the Webb Sawyer Mystery Series. The prologue for the second Webb Sawyer book, Pelican Point, appears at the back of Blue Heron Marsh. Pelican Point is in progress and is expected to be released in 2009.
This is the third article in Douglas Quinn’s four week Virtual Book Tour, which began on Sunday, January 13th, 2008. Check the Official Douglas Quinn Web Site for details and the schedule. Douglas Quinn encourages your interaction and participation in this tour and with this article in particular. If you are a member of a group or a blog where this article is posted, please direct your comments and questions for Douglas Quinn through the group and/or blog and he will, in turn, answer you in general and/or in person. Douglas Quinn looks forward to your active participation.
To find out more about Douglas Quinn and his work you may go to his Web Site at www.douglasquinn.com, at his Crimespace Page at www.crimespace.ning.com/profile/obxwriter and at his Gather Page at www.obxwriter.gather.com.
Blue Heron Marsh and other books by Douglas Quinn may be ordered through retail book stores and online via www.amazon.comhttp://www.amazon.com, ,
www.barnesandnoble.com and other online booksellers.
14 comments:
This was excellent! I loved the style of the author interviewing the character of the book. Very interesting and another book added to my "to read" list.
Thanks Ravenn, I read/reviewed Blue Heron Marsh and it was awesome!! A really food read!
Very clever way to promote your hero and book.
Jackie
Thanks Ravenn and Jackie. I appreciate your interest and comments. I had a ton of fun interviewing this "character."
And thanks to you, Crystal, for hosting this interview and the third week of my Virtual Book Tour.
Smiles,
Douglas Quinn
www.douglasquinn.com
HI Everyone and Douglas!! I am so sorry I've been MIA!! Douglas' novel Blue Heron Marsh is a must read for you mystery lovers! And if you like fish, then you'll love this story! *winks at Douglas*
I've heard of Blue Heron Marsh somewhere. I'll have to check that one out.
A different slant on interviewing GREAT!!! BobbyRobert
Thanks Bobby and Zinnia! I really appreciate your posts as I am sure Douglas does :)
Thanks for the comment, Bobby. I actually have another interview with one of my minor (but interesting) characters in Blue Heron Marsh coming up next week.
Smiles,
Douglas Quinn
www.douglasquinn.com
I knew Douglas Quinn had written this interview but hadn't had the chance to read it. Please read my interview of Douglas Quinn, himself, at http://chronclesofelydir.spaces.live.com/
Brenda Wynn
Thanks to all of you who read the interview. Whether you commented her or to me directly (as many have) I appreciate your inteerest and participation.
And a special thanks to Crystal Adkins who goes out of her way to support all authors across a variety of genres and subject matter.
I'll send her a mess of stripers after the next time I out in the marshes fishing with Webb.
Smiles,
Douglas Quinn
www.douglasquinn.com
Douglas, DON'T YOU DARE send me any FISH!!! LOL after reading Blue Heron Marsh...I was sick to death of fish. AND I never ate it in the first place :)
Thank you Douglas for including me in your Virtual Book Tour!!
apuovaqwcrystal blogs really host some great authors!
sounds like great book doug
Thanks, Black Roze. The people who have read it and the reviewers seem to think it's a pretty good read. I'm now working on the next book in the Webb Sawyer Mystery Series.
Best,
Douglas Quinn
www.douglasquinn.com
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