Murder at Redwood Cove (2 page)

A
nother hit. The dog poked his large head into the boy's side.

Daniel held him closer.

The boy sank into the man's chest, burying his face. His slender shoulders heaved as the sobs continued. “He's dead. Uncle Bob's dead.”

A soul-grabbing sound like nothing I'd ever heard filled the air. The hound's head was thrown back, nose pointed to the sky, ears dangling down his back, as he howled a chilling, baritone cry.

“Quiet,” Daniel said sternly.

The dog's head came down, and his muzzle snapped shut.

Souls were saved.

The boy unfolded slowly out of Daniel's arms, stood, and wiped his eyes on the arm of his gray sweatshirt, leaving wet blotches on the sleeve.

“Are you okay?” I stepped toward him.

He nodded in reply but didn't say a word.

“I'm Ms. Jackson.” I leaned down and put my hand out. “What's your name?” He appeared about ten.

I received a tentative, small hand in return and gently shook it.

Puffy red eyes looked at me. “Tommy,” came the barely audible whisper.

“Nice to meet you.” I looked at the canine that was seriously studying me. “What's your dog's name?”

“Fred.”

The dog's lips pulled back in a grin at the mention of his name. His small tank of a body wiggled from one end to the other as he gazed at the boy.

“Come on. Time to get you home.” Daniel stood and ruffled Tommy's light blond hair. He turned to me. “His mom works at the inn, and they live on site.”

I walked to the bike and picked it up.

“I can get that.” Daniel reached for it.

“I'm fine. You have two charges to take care of.”

The tricolored dog lumbered beside us as we walked up the trail, Daniel's hand resting on Tommy's shoulder. A gust of wind sent a faint mist from the ocean over us, the salty tang filling my nostrils.

What on earth had the boy meant when he said it was his fault Bob Phillips was dead? I was dying to ask the question, but I knew now wasn't the time.

Daniel pulled keys from his pocket as we approached the car and aimed one at the trunk. By the time we reached it, the lid was up. He placed the bike in the back and put rags under the protruding front wheel. I spied a couple of blankets. “You're well supplied.” I grabbed them and covered part of the backseat to protect it from Fred's doggi-ness.

“This is country living up here. You go prepared.” He tied the lid down with rope. “Tommy, you and Fred hop in the back.”

The boy climbed in. Daniel reached down to help the short-legged animal maneuver onto the car seat. Fred gave Tommy a quick lick and leaned against him.

We drove from the headlands to Redwood Cove Bed-and-Breakfast in less than ten minutes. Daniel turned the Mercedes into a narrow driveway. A two-story white clapboard house and a riot of periwinkle blue, fuchsia, and deep gold among massive amounts of green vegetation came into view. Bursts of white flowers climbed upward on a lush vine. Every eave dripped ornate curls of gingerbread trim. A well-dressed Victorian lady.

Passing the guest parking, we pulled into a loading area at the back of the house and parked next to a red Toyota pickup with R
EDWOOD
C
OVE
B
ED-AND-
B
REAKFAST
painted on the side.

Daniel opened the rear door. “Out you come.” He helped Fred make the descent. Tommy jumped out after him and ran for the house.

He took the porch stairs two at a time. He stopped at the back door, his hand on the knob, and glanced back. “Thank you, Daniel.” His pale face turned to me. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Jackson.” He opened the door, held it for Fred, and rushed inside.

Grabbing my hat and briefcase, I stepped out, took a welcome stretch, and sighed. A red-eye flight from Cheyenne, small planes in between, and hours of missed sleep hit me like a two-by-four.

Daniel smiled. “I'll get your bags and meet you inside. We can fix you tea or coffee, if you'd like.”

“Coffee would be great. Thanks.” I walked up the wooden stairs, following the boy's path. I entered a warm, embracing work area and kitchen combined and almost swooned as the aroma of baking cookies enveloped me. Right. Food. Hours ago there had been a rubbery-egg airport breakfast.

Two women looked up from a large table covered with neatly stacked piles of paper. A young blonde approached, an almost visible energy field surrounding her. “I'm Suzie Ward, manager of Ralston Hotel. Our place is just down the road.” The enthusiastic hand I shook gave me a spark of energy.

“Kelly Jackson, Resorts International.”

The other woman, large-framed and gaunt, slowly rose and walked around the table. “I'm Helen Rogers.” She extended her hand. It was limp, as if unable to hold its own weight.

The spark extinguished, and my shoulders sagged.

“I came over to help Helen.” Suzie looked away. “Bob's death has been difficult. The community lost one of its finest members.”

“I'm sorry.” I wished I had comforting words to ease the pain, but no magic vocabulary materialized.

“I see Tommy came home with you. I'm his mom, and I'm an assistant here.” Helen ran her fingers through short, wavy brown hair interlaced with gray. “I'm so glad to have you here.” Dark hollows beneath her eyes hinted at sleepless nights.

Daniel entered. “I'll put your bags in your room.”

“I'll go with you. It's been a long day, and I want to freshen up.” I looked at the women. “I'll be taking over Bob's duties until his position is filled. I'll be back shortly. I'd appreciate it if you'd catch me up on what's happening.” The corners of my mouth managed a slight upward curve, defying the gravity of tiredness. “It's nice meeting you.”

I followed Daniel down a narrow, wood-floored hallway. He paused as he started to turn left and pointed to a door on our right. “That's our conference room. Extra linens are in the closet next to it.”

The hall had long, rectangular windows framing a lush backyard. We headed toward a door at the end of the hallway. Daniel unlocked it, and we stepped into a large, bright room. He deposited my bags on the floor.

A studio apartment–sized beige couch occupied the right side with a large oak cabinet directly ahead. An open door in the far corner revealed the edge of a bed. However, what demanded my attention was the part of the room that pushed out into a small strip of garden and pulled in the ocean beyond. Almost at cliff's edge—glass roof, glass to the floor.

“Wow!”

“Yeah, it's pretty spectacular.” He stared with me for a moment. “We have a lot of foggy days here. Light's at a premium.”

A small table with four chairs, window seats, and a beckoning recliner completed the furnishings. I spied a wood-burning stove against the wall near the sunroom. I put my things on the couch, took off my jacket, and tossed it on top of them.

“This is a self-contained unit.” He led me to a galley-like area. “There's a small fridge stocked with a variety of food choices. Nothing fancy, but handy for late nights or long afternoons.” A two-burner stove with a microwave above it provided the basic preparation equipment. And then there was the gleaming coffeemaker.

I laughed. “A sailboat kitchen that has a commercial-grade coffee machine with all the bells and whistles.” My big, burly boss, Michael Corrigan, owner of Resorts International, prized a quality cup of coffee. A note on the glistening giant said fresh beans were in the canisters.

“Priorities. What can I say?” Daniel grinned. He walked back into the main room, opened a cabinet, and slid out a state-of-the-art computer. “There are file folders here”—he pulled out a drawer—“and office supplies are in that one.” He pointed to the other side. “Your company does it right.”

“Yes, it does.” I looked around and then turned back to him. “Daniel, it's been a pleasure to meet you. Thank you for all your help.”

“Sure thing.”

“I'm sorry about Bob Phillips. It must be hard on everyone.”

“It is. He was a great guy.”

We looked at each other for a moment. Strangers sharing a moment of sadness.

“Let me know if you need anything.” He grabbed a card out of his pocket. “This has my cell phone number. Works in town, but it's spotty in the surrounding area.” He scribbled on it. “Here's my home phone, as well.”

“Thanks.”

He handed it to me.

“The keys to the company pickup are on a hook next to the back door. The Mercedes stays at the airport. It's used by company execs when they fly in and for picking up guests. I'm going to take it up there now and swap it for my van.”

A light tapping at the door interrupted us.

I opened it. A large basket was shoved up at me.

“Welcome to Redwood Cove Bed-and-Breakfast,” Tommy said from beneath it.

I took it and admired the colorful collection of welcoming gifts. “This is wonderful.” The fruit consisted of strawberries, bananas, and apples. The chocolate wrapper said R
EDWOOD
C
OVE
C
HOCOLATE
C
OMPANY,
and the reading material included a newspaper, the
Redwood Cove Beacon,
and the
Mendocino County Visitors' Guide
.

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” Tommy was gone.

Daniel said, “He's a neat kid, but he's having a tough time . . . in a lot of ways.”

“What did he mean it was his fault Bob died?”

He sighed and shook his head. “Ten-year-old logic, or lack of it.” Daniel leaned against the wall. “He was supposed to work with Bob on his fifth-grade science project after school the day Bob died. Tommy got in trouble and had to stay after. He figures if he'd gotten home on time, Bob wouldn't have gone for a walk and fallen off the cliff.”

“I'm sure people have told him it wasn't his fault.”

“Oh yeah. Many times. His decision's set like cement.” Another sigh. “You can jackhammer concrete and haul it away, but we haven't found the solution for Tommy's guilt.”

“The fact they were related must make it even harder.”

“They weren't. Bob had taken Tommy under his wing. Said he'd be an uncle for him. They did things together like an uncle and a nephew would.”

“I appreciate your sharing that with me.” I shuddered to think of the burden the child carried.

“Is there anything else I can get for you?”

“I'm fine, and again, thanks.”

Daniel closed the door. I sank down on the couch and leaned back into a mound of down cushions. The room looked out across an inlet to a craggy rock face covered with various shades of green. Endless ocean, almost unbearable to look at with the brightly reflected sun glazing the surface, was off to the right. Three gulls floated past the window on an air current, their wings still. It was as if I could reach out and touch them.

The calm moment was pure bliss, but it was time to move. My first solo assignment with the company. Growing up in the resort business was one thing. Being in charge was another. As I stepped into a dead man's shoes, I asked myself whether I could do it. It wasn't only my boss counting on me—employees and guests expected me to keep things running until they found a replacement for Bob.

“Get up, weary body.” I rolled off the couch, explored the small refrigerator, and grabbed a miniature bottle of Pellegrino. A mirror hung on the sitting room wall. A quick check showed I was becoming an Orphan Annie look-alike as my hair reacted to the moist air. My jeans and black turtleneck had survived the flight just fine. I appreciated the company's casual dress policy. Suits and heels didn't work for me, as I had learned from Job Number Two.

Unpacking the duffel bag and carry-on didn't take long. I put on a light blue fleece vest, pulled my fanny pack out of the briefcase, and stepped into the hallway.

“Deputy Sheriff, you're not listening,” growled a raspy male voice from the nearby conference room.

“Ivan, there's nothing to go on.”

“There could be. Investigate!” the angry voice demanded.

“Investigate what? Tell me one thing I could check into.”

“It was murder, and you know it!”

S
tartled, I glanced out a partly open hall window. A female guest sat up in a lounge chair and looked uneasily over her shoulder. The woman frowned, gathered up her blanket and book, and disappeared around a path at the edge of the house. I headed toward the sound of the voices. The word
murder
didn't bode well for a smooth beginning to my job.

The meeting room door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open, glanced around, and thought to myself it could have been your everyday senior citizens' meeting, except the subject appeared to be murder and there was a police officer in the room. The monochromatic hair color of the participants ranged from salt-and-pepper to ethereal silver.

“I know no such thing,” said a stout gentleman in a tan uniform with a M
ENDOCINO
C
OUNTY
D
EPUTY
S
HERIFF'S
emblem sewn on his sleeve.

A towering man slammed his ham-sized fist on the table. “It's not right. Something has to be done.”

The sound of the smacking hand sent a jolt through me.

The man looked up and froze.

“Sorry to interrupt. I'm Kelly Jackson, executive administrator for Resorts International, the owner of this property. I'm here as acting manager and wanted to introduce myself.” And rein your group in. Loud discussions about murder didn't partner well with a B&B vacation. I stepped in and closed the conference room door.

“I am Rudy Doblinsky.” A man seated to the right of the table pounder stood, approached me, and reached out his hand.

I extended mine, expecting the usual handshake. The man gently took it, turned it palm down, bowed with his arm behind his back, and kissed my hand, all in one flowing motion.

He released my hand and nodded his head toward the man who had been shouting. “And this is my brother, Ivan.”

Ivan's massive shoulders, pockmarked cheeks, full mustache, and shaggy mane of hair reminded me of an old, battle-scarred bull walrus. The family traits showed in Rudy's face, but he was much smaller than his brother, had a neatly trimmed beard and a quiet air about him.

The officer stood, shoved his chair back, and held out his hand. “Deputy Sheriff Bill Stanton.”

I shook his hand. “Glad to meet you.”

My gaze settled on the last person in the room, a dapper, diminutive man attired in a diamond-patterned wool vest, white shirt, and gray bow tie.

He gave a little wave. “I'm Herbert Winthrop. However, we dispensed with that name a while back, and people usually call me the Professor.” He pulled out a chair. “We heard you were coming. Please join us. We were friends of Bob, and we're discussing what happened to him.” He gave a slight smile. “Considering your position, I suspect you'd like to know about our concerns.”

I sat between him and the officer. “Since I'll be managing the property for a while, I appreciate being kept in the loop.”

Ivan dropped his large bulk into a chair that groaned a protest. He looked at Deputy Sheriff Stanton. “What about the break-in last night?” Ivan boomed. “That must mean something.”

“Ivan, don't even go there with me.” Stanton shook his head and tapped a couple of photographs on the table. “You were the one at the town hall meeting who pointed out home robberies often occur when someone dies or has been taken to the hospital, and you asked us to do more patrols in those situations.” He perused the photos and then pushed them over to me. “There's nothing to suggest what happened last night isn't just that.”

I picked them up. “Where were these pictures taken?”

“Bob Phillips's house. Thanks to these two,” the deputy said grudgingly, “the thieves didn't get anything. Rudy called the robbery in, and a deputy was nearby.”

The time was night; the brightness of the photo was like day. One picture showed a license plate attached to the back of a silver Toyota, numbers easily readable. The other captured a wide-eyed young Caucasian man wearing a dark watch cap, dreadlocks falling to his shoulders. Another man had his denim-covered back to the camera, a side profile of his face showing. They were carrying a large-screen television between them.

“And another thing,” the officer added. “Guys like these usually have a twelve-gauge handy. They can do a lot of damage, fast.”

“Ivan has, what you call it, a lead foot?” Rudy grinned. “Poof. We were gone.” He studied his hands. “We promised Bob's kids we'd watch over the house.”

“I know you want to help, but you two need to be careful. You hear me?” The deputy looked at them with a mixture of fondness and frustration.

I put the photos on the table.

Deputy Sheriff Stanton glanced at them. “By the way, what in the world did you use for light? It must've scared the bejesus out of those guys.”

“I borrow the searchlight from
Nadia
.” Ivan couldn't have whispered if he tried. “She's not going fishing for a while, so I put to good use.”

“I thought you retired that old boat,” Stanton said.

Ivan began to puff up. “Old boat? My
Nadia
?”

The Professor rapped the table with his pen. “Back to the point at hand.” He looked at the officer. “Will you do anything further to investigate Bob's death?”

“I'll read the autopsy report. If there's something unusual there, I'll act on it.”

“Was there anything Bob was working on that might have gotten him into trouble?” The Professor turned to me. “Bob was an ardent conservationist.”

“After your call questioning his death, I checked with Fran at Fish and Game. He was trying to get an area of the beach protected for the snowy plover. Some of the locals objected to that.” He shook his head. “But murder, no.” He looked around the group. “There's the abalone poaching your group has helped with, and the marijuana busts, but that's not new.”

Poaching? Drugs? Wasn't Redwood Cove the primo tourist destination for northern California? How were these people involved? Had Bob been murdered? I had a lot of questions that needed answers. “Other than the robbery, why do you think he was murdered?”

“He knew the cliffs like the back of his hand,” the Professor said. “He walked them almost every day, and he was always careful. Where he fell didn't have any hidden dangers.”

I agreed about the location based on my observations.

“And he had a physical two weeks ago,” Rudy said. “The doctor gave him an excellent report.”

Deputy Sheriff Stanton stood. “Gotta go, folks. If you find something concrete I can work with, I'll check it out.” The deputy shook his head. “But I think it was just a tragic accident. I know it's hard to accept that's what happened.”

He pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to me. “It was nice meeting you, Ms. Jackson. If I can be of any assistance, please don't hesitate to call.”

“Thanks, Deputy Sheriff Stanton. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

The officer left, and the Professor turned to me.

“Ms. Jackson, we had an idea when we heard you were coming.” The Professor smiled benignly at me. “We thought it might be helpful to reconstruct the day of Bob's death.” Again the engaging smile. “Our group imagined you'd like to get up to speed with what he was doing as quickly as possible.”

The door burst open. “I'm so sorry to be late. The brownies seemed to take forever.” A plump woman rushed in holding a plate heaped with bars oozing chocolate. Smile lines permanently etched her cheeks. The sweet scent of perfume trailed in behind her. She placed the dish on the table and looked at me. “I'm Mary Rutledge,” emitted a soft, breathless voice as she seated herself at the table.

A munchkin-sized woman followed Mary, her cane tapping a rhythmic beat. “Gertrude Plumber.” Her wizened face peered at me intently. “And that's the last time Gertrude is to be mentioned. Call me Gertie.” She settled next to Mary.

“Pleased to meet you. Kelly Jackson, the temporary manager here.”

“Deputy Stanton isn't planning to do an investigation unless something new comes to light,” the Professor told the newcomers. “We were just beginning to talk with Ms. Jackson about gathering information.”

“Bob had one of those gadgets your company uses.” Gertie looked around the group. “A Blackbush? Was that it?”

“A BlackBerry, my dear.” The Professor smiled at her.

“He was forever making notes on the infernal thing. Maybe you could find something there,” Gertie said.

I nodded. All managers used the same system for calendaring appointments and checking e-mail.

Ivan grinned, or at least I thought that was what all the teeth represented. If it wasn't a grin, I should probably run. His teeth resembled those I imagined the wolf showed in
Little Red Riding Hood.

“Yah. You tell us what he did,” he said with a vigorous nod of his head.

“You could perhaps talk to the people he visited the day of his death and share what you discover with us.” The Professor paused. “We could see if we felt anything was unusual. We've known Bob for ages.”

I thought for a moment. “Your idea about finding out what he most recently did for the business is a good one. How much I can tell you depends on the nature of his conversations and what he was doing.”

“Certainly, Ms. Jackson.” The Professor nodded. “We appreciate any assistance you can provide.”

“Please, all of you, call me Kelly.”

“Bob was kind enough to let us meet here every week. He joined us whenever possible. Can our group still use the facilities?” the Professor asked.

“Yes, you're welcome to use the room. However, I believe one of the guests heard your comment about murder and was disturbed by it. The comfort of our guests comes first.”

“My brother, Ivan, gets carried away. His passionate Russian roots take over at times,” Rudy said. “It won't happen again.”

“Sorry,” rumbled Ivan. “Madam, please accept my many apologies.”

“I'll make sure the door is closed.” The Professor's intense blue eyes twinkled at me. “We'd love to have you meet with us.”

“Thank you. I'd like to join you as work permits.”

Mary's eyes peeked over the top of her gold-framed glasses. “Thank you, honey, for helping with our investigation.” She pushed the platter of decadent sweets toward me. “My grandkids say these are the best. Please try one.”

Grandma investigating? “Does your group have a name?”

Rudy stood and pulled his slightly crooked frame to full height. “We, madam, are the Silver Sentinels.”