Skulduggery and murder on the Oregon Coast

By Patricia Harrington of Tacoma, Washington who is a grantwriter for nonprofit organizations and a mystery fiction writer.

A few years ago, I had the fun and privilege of taking a mystery writing workshop from M.K. Wren, as part of the Haystack Series offered by Portland State University. Among the many valuable lessons I learned from this talented and wise Oregonian, was that the Oregon coast made a great setting for mysteries. That included the kind I write, whodunits.

As M.K. said, "Mysteries sit on a three-legged stool: setting, plot and character."

With book number two in my Bridget O'Hern series (Death Comes Too Soon, September 2005) I set the story in a fictional place called Seaview. In my mind, the town was somewhere between Astoria and Lincoln City. And the images of the place started the creative flow.

Settings can be the genesis for plots, and certainly characters are often defined by place. Well known mystery author Dame P.D. James has been quoted as saying that places often give her the initial ideas for her stories. She particularly responds to lonely, desolate landscapes and interesting buildings such as old churches.

For me, the promontaries along the Oregon coast line birthed a story idea. I could sense the loneliness of my sleuth and also the victim. I knew one violent scene had to happen in crashing waves. And there would be a scene with someone contemplating as the sun drifted into the ocean and dusk fell.

No offense, but there are spots on the Oregon coast that are great places for skulduggery to happen.

That thought became the impetutus for writing Death Comes Too Soon. Of course, I had to create a fictious Oregon Coast Art League so that my sleuth, who consults with nonprofits, had a reason to be in Seaview.

There actually was another incident that became a part of my Oregon-based whodunit. And that triggering event centered on my lodging while attending that mystery writing workshop years ago.

I was lucky to find any kind of room at the last minute, which turned out to be someone's converted garage-cum-workshop. There were no coverings over the window or patio door and nothing but a holey Futon with a lone blanket to sleep under. And I could forget breakfast as in bed-and-breakfast. Actually, though, my hostess was pleasant enough, though a bit eccentric, and prone to leave the house wide open day and night. I must admit, however, that it has become curiouser and curiouser to me as I plotted out the novel. Early on, my creative muse nudged me and whispered, "Why don't you make a B & B owner one of the victims."

There seemed to be a kind of literary justice to that thought.

In closing, it's apparent that Oregon is a place for independent spirits, and I think I managed to include a few in my novel.

Time will tell.