"People come to Portland," Cain explains, "many of them for the quality of life.
Why has Chelsea Cain conjured a corpse on Portland's pastoral Sauvie Island, 10 miles west and a twilight zone away from urban woe? She lay five feet from the water's edge, on her back, head to the side, one plump arm tucked behind her torso, skin and hair coated with sand. I've read Cain's book, Heartsick: She had been strangled and then soaked in bleach, like the others. She points to a mound of sand just a few yards away from us. And the converse of that is to think, well, 'Where is a good place to dump a body?'" I think I read too many Nancy Drew books. "I often keep my eyes open for bodies," she tells me with a fat smile. "Mixed" is one way to spin Cain's relationship with this idyllic beach. So right away, I had a mixed relationship with the city". "I actually came to Portland when my mom was dying of cancer. "I started walking here with my mom," she tells me. Her dark glasses and Chanel "Vamp" lipstick are startling as the wind whips her unnaturally-honeyed hair. The silk scarf, loose around her neck, trails her like Dior perfume (Poison, of course). This much I know: Crime writer Chelsea Cain likes being noticed, even on this empty beach along the Columbia River.
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