On the one hand, what better scenario for a mystery writer than to actually discover a body, call 9-1-1, and deal with the cops and coroner. On the other hand, when the Dear Departed is your best friend/confidante/partner in crime/constant companion, not to mention the fellow to whom you dedicated your first book--well, as Shauna J. Bogart would undoubtedly say, "Not another f***ing learning experience."

My life-long love of mysteries did serve me well, however, in a real-life crisis. Now, the book I wrote is classified as a "cozy" (violence kept to a minimum, the dastardly deed happening off-screen), but my taste in reading is much more hard-boiled, more James Ellroy than Lillian Jackson Braun. So I had a good idea of what to expect from law enforcement, understood why the cops had to treat this (as well as any death not attended by medical personnel) as a crime scene until proven otherwise, why there had to be an autopsy and (thank you Patricia Cornwell) what that would entail. And these days I have never been more grateful for being a writer, for being able to escape by slipping into Shauna J.'s skin and living her imaginary life, at least for a few hours.

Utah Dave
Obituary photo in the Salt Lake Tribune

The essential tragedy of Dave Palmer was, in my opinion, that his soul was torn between two widely-divergent places, cultures and ways of life. Nowhere was this more symbolic than in the two ceremonies held in honor of Dave's life and death. First, a very traditional and conservative family funeral and burial in Salt Lake City, followed three days later by a celebration of his life at a meeting of the Wo/man's Alliance for Medical Marijuana in Santa Cruz, Calif. The latter event was every bit as woo-woo wacky New Age California as you'd expect.

                        California Dave
                                                                        Obituary photo in the Monterey County Herald

Two more polar opposite rituals would be impossible to find. I thought both were wonderful in their own very special ways.

The thing is, Dave truly loved Utah, adored his family, and revered his cultural heritage. And yet--a life-force so creative and independent, a spirit so stubborn and rebellious, could never be confined in a society as tradition-bound as the Beehive State. Like so many dreamers before him, he came to California, first to become a star, later simply seeking peace and a sense of belonging.

In the end, he found the acceptance he so craved in neither place.

Both his Utah family and his California family instinctively understood that our Golden Boy's true home was the water: surfing, swimming, hot-tubbing, or simply sitting on a bench on a seaside bluff and watching his beloved harbor seals.

    I am not here
    I'm at the sea
    The wind, the waves, the ocean
    And me
       - Poem presented by Dave's family in Utah, author unknown