May’s blog post comes to you from a hotel room in Red Bluff, California. My second visit in as many months. Who knew so many former Keddie residents would relocate to the same town? In any event, I’m here. Again. In fairness, I nearly forgot to write this post. Correction: I did forget. At least until my manager sent me a reminder (and an earworm).

I’m exhausted with this year. Yes-yes, I know. “But Heather, you and your ‘odd numbered years!’ What happened to all the joy?”

Death, folks. Death happened. Death in the past, and death in the present. And I’ve had a bellyful of it. In fact, I want a do-over of most of it. Hear that, 2026? You owe me!

Those who’ve read my previous Monthly Musings may remember my talking about the death of my best friend at the beginning of March. It was devasting. Nearly as devastating as finding out at the end of the same month that my father died back in February. That’s right. I wasn’t there. I didn’t know. I wasn’t told. And it wasn’t fair. There’s plenty I could say about the various failings that accompanied his unnecessary and devastating passing. About being his only child, about what I believed happened to him, and about the likely discarding of everything he left behind that should have ended up with me. But anyone reading this didn’t temporarily lend me their ears (well, eyes) to hear about it. I’m assuming anyone tuning in is either curious about my work (fiction) or the current project I’m working on (true crime). So, I’ll spare you my continued tales of woe.

You’re welcome.

 I’ve learned a good bit about true crime writing in the last year and a half. Mostly, I’ve learned it’s not something I ever want to do again. It’s a fierce jungle and in this case, replete with corruption, deception, rumor, and victim-blaming. Sure, I’m a researcher. I love research. I even love the research for this book. The difference, however, is that in fiction, my characters can’t hide from me. I mean, they can refuse to talk to me for a while, but eventually I herd the proverbial cats. In true crime, it’s like herding snails. Maybe I’ve become a snail, too.

I’ve spent anywhere from six weeks to two years trying to nail down a few specific people who are integral to the details of the crime. People related to what we’ll call the main players: suspects, cops, witnesses. The deeper I get into this thing, the clearer I see why forty-four years have passed without a resolution. Add to that a growing complication I’m unable to discuss and there’s no wonder I’ve yet to write a single word beyond the book’s Preface.

You read that right.

Frustration and grief have stolen the first four months of this year from me. That end-of-September self-imposed deadline looms ever near, and here I am – needing a reminder to simply do my monthly blog post. You have no idea how relieved I’ll be to finish this book. And the year.

But back to Red Bluff. I’m here conducting a must-have interview with someone I chased for six weeks before they finally returned one of my many calls and texts. Someone who knows things. Secret things. About the murders? I don’t know. I doubt it. But definitely about the inner workings of a major player…a player who won’t talk. To anyone. Tomorrow’s interview is so important, I’m reticent to even mention it. Like I said, it’s a jungle. Anyone, at any time, can back out. Even when they’ve previously agreed to talk. Even when I’ve traveled 4½ hours in a car, toting my one-eyed Chihuahua, my laptop, a digital recorder, and a carful of luggage just to buy them breakfast.

As I write this, I’m still convinced he’ll ditch me. In fact, he asked me to call and remind him the night before. I just did. He didn’t answer. I left a message. I guess we’ll see.

The good news is, I’m driving north after the hope-I-get-it interview to spend the weekend with one of the victims’ surviving family members. The very woman (then, a 14-year-old teenager) who walked into her house that fateful Sunday morning to discover three dead bodies in her living room. The three turned out to be her mother, her older brother, and the brother’s friend.

We’re going to break up the heaviness of the weekend with some wine tasting. I’m certain we’ll both need it.

Lest anyone think (rightly) that I sound depressed and like I’m on a total downer, you’re absolutely correct. I’m trying to process the loss of two of the most important people in my entire life while also trying to honor my commitment to this project, to the memory of those who were murdered, and to the survivors who had no more choice in losing their family members than I did. This deadline can’t be pushed back. Not even a day. The release date is, to me, as important as the book itself. And so, no matter what, I will soldier on.

My fervent hope is that I can hunker down in the days after my trip and start writing the book. Assuming I get tomorrow’s interview, there are still a handful of folks on my wish list – two in particular, one I consider vital. If I get them, I’ll be grateful. If I don’t, well, we’ll see how it shakes out. There are ways of addressing issues related to folks who hide.

As I close this month’s blog, I guess I can say what we all say to those in our orbit as we watch red-eyed through the rear-view mirror of life: hug your dad, laugh with your friends, and never waste a moment when you can tell someone you love them.

And should that ever elude you – and that final moment arrives when the goodbyes aren’t said – it’s necessary to grieve. So do that too. But don’t forget the things in front of you. Don’t forget to live. In the immortal lyrics of songwriter Kevin Cronin (of REO Speedwagon), keep pushin’ on.