Cowabunga Christmas (5 page)

Mick
had even placed two large wooden tiki-god statues outside his door. Willow
began picking out other features of the surfing hangout and describing them to
me.
More campground than village
, I concluded as she showed me an
outhouse tucked away, hidden by trees. Just in case I needed to use it.

“We
can use the restrooms and showers at the beach. They’re much nicer, but farther
away. And this is where we keep supplies, canned goods, paper products, cleaning
products, blankets, camping gear, and other basics like that,” Willow said,
taking me a few steps closer to storage sheds in between Kahuna’s shack and two
more similarly-built shacks. Several bicycles leaned up against one of the
sheds.

“Anyone
can use the bikes. We all contribute what we can, and take what we need, when
it comes to food and supplies. Everyone helps with chores like cleaning up
around here, gathering and chopping wood, or hauling water from a fall that’s
not too far from here. Wood and water is stored over there,” she said, pointing
to a large metal bin full of chopped wood next to a huge water catchment
container. The whole layout was way too rustic for me. When push comes to
shove, I don’t think I’m the little grass shack kind of girl. I hope Brien
knows that.

“If
not Mick, who
is
the big Kahuna around here?” I asked.

“No
one, really.” She paused, thinking about it. “People listen to you more if
you’re an excellent surfer or you’ve been around here longer. That’s part of
what got Owen into trouble.” Antennae up! Willow had referred to Owen by his
real name, not as Opie.
Hmm
, I wondered.

“You
mean, because he hadn’t been here very long or was it that Barney business?”

“Both,”
she said, smiling. “The live and let live business, mostly. A lot of people
come here thinking that living on the beach is wild and romantic.” She choked
on the word ‘romantic.’ “It can be, at first. Time stops. They bum around for a
while; feel relieved not doing whatever they were doing before they got here. You
know, the pressure is off? People drift along and then all of a sudden realize they’re
in a rut. A different type of a rut, but it’s still a rut. Worse than that
they’re stuck, you know?” I nodded yes. For me it was the music business that had
put stars in my eyes. Stuck was an understatement once I had fallen into the
rut I dug for myself with Mr. P.

“That’s
especially true if you’re not here for the surfing. We get plenty of people who
pass through and move on once they figure out living simply is not easy. It
takes work, too. When they realize that, they start looking for a way out.” Her
voice went all raspy.

“Is
that how Owen saw it?” She nodded yes. In silence, she led me to one of the
shacks and opened the door. I followed her inside. It was about as neat and
tidy as you could expect a one room home to be. Four cots lined up against the
wall, told me she didn’t always live here alone. A makeshift rack held clothes
and other items. Willow sank down on one of the cots, patting the empty space
next to her. I took it.

“We
had a thing,” she said, almost in a whisper.

“Willow,
are you saying you and Owen, um... hooked up?” Tears welled up in her eyes as
she nodded yes. I gulped as it dawned on me that Brien and I had brought her
very bad news on Christmas Eve.

“I’m
so sorry, it must be a shock to find out he’s dead.” Willow said nothing, but
nodded again, weeping now. I searched for a box of tissues; grabbed a beach
towel instead, and handed it to her. She buried her face in it sobbing louder.

“It’s
my fault! I broke up with him. That’s why he started acting like such an ass
and got Mick on his case.” More sobbing, before she spoke again. “It wasn’t the
sheriff in him that got him in trouble with me—it was the crook. Owen was a
dope—a real dope.” Willow went back to sobbing. I should have put my arm around
her, and hugged or patted her. I’m just not a touchy-feely person. Instead, I
tried to think of something comforting to say.

“Listen,
Willow, no way is it your fault. I’m betting it’s the crook thing that got him
killed, not breaking up with you. You want to talk about it?” Boy, did she!
Willow had quite the story to tell. Brien and I had found the thief burgling
boats at the dock, and the guy who stole that dinghy. After Willow finished her
story and quit crying I had her show me around a little more. That took us up
the steep incline along the back side of the cliffs.

T
he sun
was riding lower in the sky by the time Willow took me back to the campfire.
The late afternoon rays of sunshine no longer penetrated far into the cover of
trees and it was getting chilly. Here and there, lanterns had been hung that
glowed in the dusky shadows. Colorfully dressed surfers and those who hung out
with them stood around or sat near the fire. A much smaller number than you
might find in the summer months, according to Willow. Surfing was as good or
better in the winter, though, and fewer people meant less worries about having
to compete for a good wave. When the hot Santa Ana winds blew in, it could
truly be a surfer’s paradise.

Only a
handful of people actually lived there year round—a couple dozen, maybe. Willow
wasn’t certain how many. Funny they should have made such a big deal about Owen
Taylor being a newbie because even the year-rounders eventually moved on. Only
two or three community members had been there for more than ten years. That
included Mick. One reason he regarded himself as headman.

I
smelled fish sizzling on the fire and realized I was getting hungry. If I was
hungry Brien must be starving. No need to worry about my Brien. When I joined
him at the circle of people sitting around the fire I saw he had scored a small
bag of Doritos. The warmth of that fire felt good to my chilly arms. I must
have given that away because Willow took off the shawl she wore and placed it
around my shoulders.

“You’re
going to need that for your walk home,” she said sweetly. “I’ve got
others—blankets, too!” Her mood was still somber, but had lightened
considerably after spilling her guts about Owen.

“Thanks,
Willow. I’ll bring it back to you. I’m sure we’ll be around again soon now that
Mick’s educated Brien about the surfing scene here.” Mick liked that. Brien
knew me well enough to pick up the hint of sarcasm in my tone. I bet I had
learned as much about Owen, the community and surfing as Brien had learned.
Once the flood gates opened, the words tumbled out with stories about Willow’s
surfing experience, village life, her relationship with Owen and his troubles.
She had given Owen a few surf lessons before he became more interested in his other
endeavors, using his spearfishing as a cover.

“Yeah,
that’s awful nice of you, Willow. We should get going—time for some grindage,
Bro.” Brien rubbed his stomach, making circular motions to go with the grindage
word. Grindage? Okay, that was a new one for me. “Like Kim says, thanks for the
education.”

“Happy
to oblige. You and your surfette are welcome to hang with us. We got plenty
good eats, Brah,” Mick spoke that last line with a pidgin accent. I noted I had
gone up a notch—from bunny to surfette. I’m not sure I deserved it. I must be a
worse surfer than Opie. I’d have to remember to ask Brien if there was such a
thing in surf lingo as a Barneyette. That would be me.

“Thanks
for the offer, but we made reservations for a Christmas Eve dinner.”

“No
problem. Catch you later,” Mick said as he poked at potatoes wrapped in
aluminum foil that had been tucked down into the coals. Willow stood there
looking so woebegone once again, I actually hugged her. It wasn’t so bad. I
felt much less awkward now that I have had so much practice hugging Brien.

“We’ll
be back, promise.” That seemed to pick up her mood. I wanted to add, ‘and with
information about who killed Owen,’ but that remained to be seen.

Brien
and I hustled back to the hotel. I had forgotten all about those dinner reservations.
We had to shower and change our clothes before we could show up at the resort’s
finest restaurant, The Abbey. Between huffs and puffs I filled Brien in on what
Willow had revealed.

“Willow
is convinced Owen was a nice guy that gave in to his inner crook and got mixed
up with the wrong crowd. She didn’t mention names, but Owen claimed he had
stumbled across some real operators running local scams.”

“Like
what?” Brien asked.

“Like
picking up packages from boats that come into the cove at night.” Brien stopped
walking for a second.

“So,
we’re talking about drugs after all?”

“No,
not that, I’m talking about piracy, twenty-first century style.”

“As in
knock-offs?”

“Yes,
counterfeit goods. Willow says Owen wasn’t sure where the goods came from—Mexico
or China via Mexico. Mr. P used to rant about the thievery’s impact on sales of
CDs for his stable of rock stars. Can you believe that, given all the scummy
sidelines that little weasel had going? Anyway, the goods mostly came in on small
vessels, privately owned and used for recreation, touring or sport fishing. They
don’t get inspected like the big container ships.”

“That
couldn’t be a very big operation, could it?”

“It
started off small—as a way for someone at the resort to make money by
substituting counterfeit items to snooty guests, putting cheaper stuff into the
gift shops and skimming off the difference in costs. Then it got bigger and
they began selling the knock-offs to stores and right off the back of the
truck. Not in San Albinus, mind you, but in Monterey and Salinas, bigger cities
not too far away.”

“Okay,
they pick this stuff up in boats, and then unload it at the dock?”

“That’s
right, Brien. There’s an access road that leads to a boat launch where they parked
a truck, late at night, and transported the goods from the dock. Owen figured out
what was going on by eavesdropping on a couple of regulars at the Hideaway
where he worked. One night, he heard them talking about leaving a few items
behind. A helicopter patrol spooked them and they let the stuff float away.
When they gave up on the idea of retrieving the lost goods, Owen decided to cut
himself in on the action. The spearfishing became a cover. At first, he hauled
back the leftovers those guys were talking about—cases of counterfeit games. Packed
to keep water out, they had drifted into a shallow area near the caves in the
cliffs. Willow took me up to an overlook and pointed out the spot Owen showed
her.”

“Wow, Owen
was a crafty Santa, wasn’t he?”

“Oh,
yeah. Ambitious too, as it turned out. Owen stole that dinghy and GPS so he
could track where those guys were picking up the loot and cut in on them. He
spied on the runners at night, picked up their leftovers, and sometimes helped
himself before they got there.”

“Stealing
right out from under their noses had to be risky. That must be what got him
killed.”

“It’s
a good possibility. Willow says she warned Owen, but he argued that he wasn’t
taking much—a pilot fish swimming along with the sharks. Willow got more and
more upset as he kept bringing stuff to her, perfume and cosmetics, designer
bags and boxes of shoes—Jimmy Choos, no less.”

“Oh
no, Jessica won’t like that,” Brien said.

“You
are so right!” That was the first thought that had come into my mind when I saw
those shoes. Jessica would be so ticked, given how much she pays for a pair.
“Willow showed me sandals Owen had given her. They looked like the real deal to
me. Anyway, this is where Owen really becomes crafty Santa. Stuff’s piling up
and Owen’s got a new problem: how to get rid of his pirate booty. That’s when
he got the idea to buy the Santa suit—so he could haul his loot up through the
resort in a sack like the resort Santas carry. That suit showed up next. Willow
said by then their shack was starting to look like Santa’s workshop.”

“What
did he do with it once he got to town?”

“Willow’s
not sure, Brien. I wonder if that’s why he was in the bar after hours. Not
stealing, but stashing his goods until he could unload them.”

“There’s
one way to find that out, Kim—go talk to the owners of the bar.”

“We
could, but surely they would have noticed strange goods stashed away in a store
room or shed they own, wouldn’t they? If they did, then why not contact the
police? Why isn’t this already a matter of public record?”

“I see
where you’re going with this, Kim. Maybe they found his stash and that’s why
they decided
not
to file charges against Owen. If they took it, that would
not have made Owen happy. That’s a lot of work—picking up the knock-offs and
hauling them into the village. If Owen objected, it could have gotten
complicated, real quick. Owen probably wasn’t very good at complicated was he? I
mean, there’s no way he could have used the Santa routine much longer. Then
what? It also doesn’t sound like he put much thought into
how
to move
the goods if they were piling up in Willow’s shack like that. If he was hiding his
loot at the bar where he worked, I’ll bet he didn’t do that too well, either. Poor
Owen, not very bright, was he?” Brien said, as he shook his head.

“Not
bright at all. Willow kept putting the pressure on him to wise up, stop what he
was doing, and get rid of the merchandise piling up in her shack. Owen blew a
gasket one night and claimed he wasn’t as dumb as she thought he was. He had
worked it out, had made
connections
—as in internet connections. Willow
has no idea
who
Owen was talking about, but whoever it was had set up an
online auction site to sell the counterfeit goods.”

“Wow,
okay. That would be a way to move merchandise. Not too fast, and he’d have to
have a partner with computer skills, like you, Kim.”

“I
agree. That didn’t stop Willow. She kept arguing that the crew he was going up
against wouldn’t let him get away with it. Finally, she gave Owen an ultimatum—stop
the thievery or end their relationship. That’s when he got all testy, pointing
out others’ misdeeds. The Sheriff Taylor bit Mick mentioned had to do with Opie
suddenly ragging on his neighbors about dope-smoking at Sanctuary Grove. That’s
what they call it, by the way, Sanctuary Grove.”

“Yeah,
I know. Mick called it that too. He says it was named that before the resort
was built because the monks let them hang out there. Even after the resort
developers complained about it, the monks made them agree to leave the
inhabitants of Sanctuary Grove alone. Willow was precedent wasn’t she, Kim? She
knew the runners would catch on to what Owen was doing.” I went blank for a
second trying to translate that question about Willow being precedent.

“Do
you mean prescient, Brien? Are you saying Willow was prescient, as in prophetic
or clairvoyant?”

“Exactly!
Like she had the power to see into the future.”

“Well,
I don’t believe it required special powers to see that Owen was cruisin’ for a bruisin,’
Moondoggie. Your hunch about Owen’s scheming getting complicated is a good one.
Mix that with his not being too bright and you’ve got a deadly combo. I do love
it when you let one of those five-dollar words roll off your tongue.” I
smooched him. What I loved was the effort he made to venture to the farthest
reaches of his vocabulary. No one tried harder than Brien to express himself. I
hope that’s not too patronizing. I don’t mean it that way at all. I tried to
get us back on track.

“More
complications means, more crooks, and more people who could have had it in for
Opie. If his bosses at Corsario’s Hideaway confiscated his stash of knock-offs,
and he protested, that could have resulted in a confrontation. Or he could have
had a falling out with his partner running the internet site. We can’t overlook
the fact that Owen also ticked off his pals in Sanctuary Grove, so they could
have helped take him down. He really crossed the line when he destroyed a
private plot of marijuana plants the smokers were cultivating.”

“Whoa,
Kim, you’re right. That could have gotten a Sanctuary Grove member angry enough
to squeal on Owen, or maybe even take more extreme measures on their own.”

“Since
he was killed at the resort, I’m leaning toward the idea that someone ratted on
Owen to the counterfeit ring. My money’s on Mick as the snitch.” That brought
Brien to an abrupt halt.

“Mitch?
What makes you say that?”

“It’s
obvious there was no love lost between Mick and Owen. Plus, I caught Mick
staring at Willow more than once. It could be he felt he had a better chance
with her if Owen went away. Mick fancies himself the boss, and Willow says even
after Mick told Owen to get out and stay out, Owen kept showing up. Mick’s a
smart guy, so if Owen caught on to the guys running goods through the cove, I
doubt Mick missed it. Willow said as much—that they all knew something was
going on in the cove before Owen clued her in on it. I bet Mick figured out Owen
was doing more than spearfishing in the cove. Until Owen had his melt down it
was live and let live, you know? Willow told me Mick vowed to fix things. I
have a sneaking suspicion he did.”

“Wow,
if Mick squealed on Owen, he got him killed. That’s not live and let live. What
if Mick was in on killing Owen, too?”

“I
can’t see Mick as a murderer. What I can imagine is that when Owen trashed
their weed garden that was the last straw. Mick had a Sheriff Taylor moment of
his own. He could have gone to the police about Owen’s involvement with the
pirates of Corsario Cove, but went to the runners instead. He seemed genuinely
surprised to learn the dead Santa turned out to be Owen, don’t you think?”