Heinous Habits!

by Anna Celeste Burke

  “I don’t think he meant it like that. Most places don’t train their service personnel to address customers as ‘dude.’ It was just a sign of respect. You look respectable to me—a perfectly respectable hunk,” I added, ogling him appreciatively. “Besides, you’re not even thirty yet. How can you be an official sir ‘til then?”

  “Okay. I get it. I'll wait until I'm thirty to worry about how old I'm getting. That way I won't mention it around Jessica and the others at our ‘Cat Pack’ get-together tomorrow night. Jessica’s touchy.”

  The Cat Pack is what we call the little band of friends that had formed around Jessica Huntington when she returned to Rancho Mirage after the disastrous end to her marriage. Stray cats, mostly, like Brien and me. Curious cats, too, since one by one, we had all wandered into sleuthing with Jessica. An accident at first, it was mostly on purpose now.

  “I agree. Bernadette might unleash her powers on you.”

  “I never want to make her mad. Weird if it did, though, you know how she feels about the truth. She is old.”

  “Yes, but it’s not polite to bring it up. Besides, in Bernadette’s case, age is only a number.”

  “Well, I’m glad I mentioned not mentioning it. I don’t want Bernadette to give us one of those looks.” Brien struck a pose with his arms crossed and stared into my eyes. I laughed because, try as he might, he could not achieve the withering gaze that our beloved mother hen, Bernadette, could bestow upon us. She and my boss, Jessica Huntington, were two of the reasons we had not jumped at the chance to take those jobs in Corsario Cove. In fact, the entire Cat Pack, including Brien’s boss, Peter March, made it hard to pick up and leave for the Central Coast that’s less than a day away.

  It's more than a matter of distance. The group brought Brien and me together. The Cat Pack members were the first real friends Brien or I had ever had. Given how outgoing Brien seems to be, it’s odd that he’d spent as much of his life as alone and friendless as I had. By fourteen, I was on my own and living on the street when I went to work for one of the world’s primo scumbags, as Brien refers to Mr. P. It’s no wonder I had no friends.

  For Brien who had grown up within the remnants of a failed hippie commune, privacy had been scarce. Affable on the surface, he kept to himself. His fondest memories were of solitude—surfing at a spot not too far from where he and his parents “communed” with a changing cast of roomies. That included Brien’s mother who came and went until he was about twelve when she left for good.

  His home was akin to a flophouse as far as I could tell. A few years later the ramshackle homestead that sat a few blocks from the beach was seized for nonpayment of property tax. Brien and his father had drifted to the desert. They started a pool cleaning business that became Brien’s livelihood when his dad took off again, hoping to reunite with Brien’s mother.

  “Dad was planning to come back, so I had to keep the business going. I did.” Brien showed little emotion as he told me the whole story one night soon after we had become friends. I don’t know about him, but I was churning with a mixture of feelings. I admired his capacity to be loyal to a stoned, shirker of a parent. Anger too towards Brien's father, and sorrow for my sweet husband who still seemed as vulnerable and bewildered at times as he must have felt as a teen. Brien's story had chipped away at the icy shell around my heart. I could not remember my father at all and had given up on my mother long before Brien had given up on his parents. If he could care so much for people like that, imagine what he might be capable of with someone who loved him back?

  I’d fallen for the dude that night. I just didn’t know it yet. When I realized I had amorous feelings for Brien, there were other reasons, too. He's jaw-droppingly handsome and built. My surfer dude, pool boy, turned security guard, can also be quite the clown—not always intentionally. Like right now. I think he was making a serious attempt to imitate our “St. Bernadette’s” soul-searching gaze. He tried several times while watching himself in that mirror. It wasn’t working. I laughed out loud, releasing some of the suspense surrounding the contents of that package.

  “Nice try, Moondoggie. You need Bernadette to give you lessons on how to peer into a person's soul.”

  “I'm not ready for that—what would I do if I could?” I had no answer for that question. Time to change the subject.

  “What’s up with that package?”

  “I'm not sure. It’s not a big box, is it?” He picked it up from that table under the entryway mirror and then turned it over. “It’s from the sanctuary—the other sanctuary, not the Sanctuary that wants to hire us. You know what I mean?” He tore the paper off that package.

  “Yes, of course, I do.” By the “other sanctuary,” Brien meant the Monastery of St. Albinus, which sits at the highest point on cliffs overlooking Corsario Cove. Like San Albinus, the nearest town to Corsario Cove, the monastery was named to honor a saint known for his patronage of those seeking protection from pirates.

  There were all sorts of myths surrounding the founding of that monastery and the history that led to the naming of the cove and the town, too. Corsario Cove carried a name that also reflected the lore of the area. Corsario as in corsarios—Spanish for the men paid by one crown to rob ships flying the flags of another crown. Pirates, in other words. In California, though? I was dubious about the whole pirate thing until I stumbled upon the name of Hippolyte Bouchard. There had indeed been a series of pirate raids along California’s Central Coast led by Bouchard when the battle for control of the seas waned. Many corsarios had become independent entrepreneurs when kings and queens quit financing them.

  “Wow, what a relief! It must be a gift from Brother Thaddeus. I was worried it was bad news.”

  “A gift, yeah, that would be cool!” Brien tore into that small box, and then ripped into a white plastic bag he found inside. As he did that, a handwritten note fluttered to the ground.

  I bent down and picked it up. Almost in unison, Brien and I exclaimed.

  “No way!”

  We looked at each other, and then at the object Brien held in his hand. A marine GPS device. Like the one that we had spent way too much time chasing—like the misguided souls in that old Maltese Falcon movie. The GPS device was the one that had once belonged to a dead Santa, if Brother Thaddeus was correct. Only one of the many Santas that had been roaming the grounds of The Sanctuary Resort & Spa when we first arrived for our honeymoon right before Christmas. The place had been crawling with Santas as part of the seasonal celebration at the luxurious resort.

  “Can you believe it, Brien? It’s Opie’s GPS device!” The dead Santa had a name. More than one, in fact. Opie was the name given to him by the members of a surfer community in which the foolish young crook had lived before his scheming caught up with him. His legal name had been Owen Taylor. That was the name on his obit. And the one in all local news stories about “A Dead Santa at the Sanctuary Resort,” once the police released the information about his identity.

  “Stupefying!” Brien replied.

  There he goes, using a big word when a smaller one would do, I thought. It was a good choice, though. I felt stupefied myself.

  “After all we went through to track it down, Brother Thaddeus finds it.”

  “Does it say where in that note?”

  “Not in a detailed way. He just says it turned up not far from where we found that stash of Krugerrands. There are other items he wants to show us along with an old site that bears further investigation.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m not sure, Brien. All he says is, ‘Our cave of forgotten dreams may not have been forgotten after all.’ Mysterious, huh?”

  “Like this stupid thing. I can’t turn it on! What good is it if it doesn’t work?”

  “Let me see.” I pushed the power button and nothing! I shook it, and then tried again. “Who knows what this contraption has been through since Owen Taylor lost custody of it? The body’s nicked and the screen’s cracked. I suppose Brother Thaddeus could h
ave done that.” I handed it back to Brien who inspected it carefully.

  “Maybe it needs a new battery.”

  “Brother Thaddeus or someone must have thought the same thing. There’s a tiny screw missing, and someone must have pried it apart.” I shrugged. “Who knows if that’s the casing for the battery? I don’t have any experience with marine GPS contraptions. Do you?”

  “No, but it doesn’t look too different than the GPS trackers we use in Peter’s security firm, uh, on dry land, I mean.”

  “I get it. I’m with Detective Mitchum at this point, Brien. I’m not sure we even need to know the coordinates that were on it. What if Opie was jerking everyone around and lied when he tried to use it to get out of a tight spot—before they tossed him off the balcony anyway? Even if it does lead somewhere, who cares if the police didn’t find all the booty he had discovered? They found enough to clean up the creepy stuff that was going on in the Cove.”

  There had been lots of other schemers running amok in Corsario Cove in addition to the young, naïve, and deceitful Owen Taylor, nicknamed Opie by his friends. With our help, Twitchin’ Mitchum, our nickname for the lead detective in the small San Albinus Police Department, had rounded up a bunch of ne’er-do-wells and put them away. If you met the man, you’d understand why we call him Twitchin' Mitchum. He’s fidgety. I hate to admit it, but Brien and I may have had something to do with it.

  Once all the schemes unraveled, the rats had begun to flee the sinking ship. In the process, they turned on each other. A few were still sitting in jail or waiting for their case to go to trial. Some were already serving out sentences for their misdeeds. Most had arranged plea bargains by singing like the proverbial canary about who had done what to whom. Now that I’ve worked for a law firm, I’m amazed at how few cases ever go to trial. Even those involving murder and other heinous deeds. Those are my words. Not Brien’s.

  “There’s only one way to know that for sure, Gidget. We need to get those coordinates, check out where they lead, and settle this once and for all.”

  “Okay, that must be what Brother Thaddeus has in mind,” I said as I examined that note more carefully. “If I’m not mistaken, he seems to have gotten that thing to give up its secrets. These are marine coordinates, aren’t they?”

  “They are! He must have had a premonition that this gizmo wasn’t going to last much longer and wrote them down before it died. Or maybe it was a miracle!” Brien crossed himself, like Bernadette and Jessica do, except that he’s not Catholic. The ways of Brien are, at times, indeed mystifying.

  “Less a premonition and more like plain old common sense given the condition of that GPS device. It's terribly beaten up at this point. The fact that it worked long enough for Brother Thaddeus to write down those coordinates borders on the supernatural, all right.”

  “Spooky, huh?”

  “A little. What’s more spooky is the thought of going back into those caves even with Brother Thaddeus at our side. So is this last part of his message.” I read it aloud.

  “I found this written on a fragment of parchment paper near where I located the GPS device: ‘Dieu n'est pas content, nous avons des ennemis de la foi dans le Royaume.’ It means, ‘God is not pleased. We have enemies of the faith in the Kingdom.’ When are you coming back to Corsario Cove so we may speak at greater length about these matters? Soon, I hope.”

  “Wow, that’s not Spanish, is it?”

  “Nope, Moondoggie, it’s French.”

  “Uh, I don’t remember anyone saying anything about the mad monks of Corsario Cove being French, do you?”

  “No, I do not. We’ll have to ask Brother Thaddeus about that when we see him.” I had considered the rumors about mad monks even harder to believe than those about pirates. A tingle passed through me. Could there be a kernel of truth to these stories, too?

  If locals had their history correct, a group of monks had settled in Corsario Cove before the pirates arrived. Supposedly, it had been the monks’ prayers, powers of persuasion, and perhaps even a bit of bribery that had kept the pirates from pillaging the town that they later named San Albinus. Don Diego Vallejo, a wealthy landowner in the area, was so grateful that, during his lifetime, he built a monastery for them; and upon his death, he left his landholdings to them.

  “It is March. I guess we might as well go on that spring break we were talking about—it’s an omen, don’t you think?”

  “What omen? March? What does March have to do with it?”

  “March, as in March Madness, Kim. Only, in this case, I guess it would be March Monk Madness. Or Mad Monk March Madness. Or…”

  “Okay, I get it. Somehow, I doubt Brother Thaddeus would like us to treat whatever’s going on like a sports event.”

  “I won’t mention it, but I sure hope we’re on the winning team.”

  3 The Prodigal Dude’s Return

  When we pulled up to the front entrance of The Sanctuary Resort & Spa, staff ran to greet us. As we stepped from the car, the sea air enveloped us as a valet took the car key from Brien. I grabbed a garment bag and knapsack from the back seat. Bellhops ran to help unload the bags in our trunk.

  Suddenly, we were surrounded. The Chief of Security, Alan Henderson—“Big Al” to friends and associates—stepped forward to shake Brien’s hand and slap him on the back. Big Al, who lived up to his name, winced a little as Brien took the hand he offered and gave it a vigorous shake. Brien isn’t always aware of his own strength. No matter. The prodigal son had returned. Make that the prodigal dude.

  “Dude, welcome back!” Mick Meyer, self-appointed Kahuna of the surfer community in Corsario Cove bounded forward and embraced Brien. Hidden in the woods that ran along the cliffs and down to the beach, the cluster of huts and tents that comprised Sanctuary Grove wasn’t visible from the resort. Locals in San Albinus had other names for it, “Boardertown” among the more inoffensive ones. Boardertown as in the surfboards stuck in the sand on the beach near the path that led to the village.

  Boardertown had been there for decades, even before they built the resort. Many locals regarded the place with contempt. When there was trouble in Corsario Cove or nearby, the police headed there first. Sanctuary Grove residents weren’t trusted, even though they kept to themselves. Mostly transient surfers, only a few lived there full-time or hung around for years like Mick. Some returned, annually, to take advantage of the excellent surfing in an uncrowded location. Others were more like tourists on a “surf safari,” but some were lost souls just passing through. That translated into “beach bums,” “hobos” and “drifters” to “townies” in San Albinus.

  If you asked, you'd find out the mistrust went back decades to an attack on the beach that had left a young woman, Georgina Shaw, unconscious, a man dead, and another missing. Until recently, what happened that night had remained a mystery. Many locals had blamed the drifters in Sanctuary Grove for the trouble, even though there wasn’t a shred of evidence that they were involved.

  Perhaps that would change now that a new investigation had revealed the identity of the killer and absolved members of the surf community. The fact that the late Owen Taylor had taken refuge there for a short period hadn’t helped improve the image of the place. In the minds of many townspeople, the Santa killed at The Sanctuary Resort & Spa on Christmas Eve was a surfer even though by then Mick had kicked him out of Sanctuary Grove.

  Despite all the animosity toward Sanctuary Grove, it had survived. That was because it sat sheltered among the cypress on monastery land. To make ends meet, the monks had sold a parcel of their landholdings to the resort developers. On it, they built the sprawling, luxurious hotel and surrounding amenities including a golf course, marina with a boardwalk and shops, and a host of other recreation areas for guests. The monks still held much more land, including preserve areas that abutted the resort encompassing that makeshift surfer village.

  Part of the deal the monks made with resort developers was that the surfers would be left alone and allowed access to
the beach. The monks must have found kindred spirits among those who sought solitude in sand and surf. How that was possible with guys like Mick in their midst is hard to understand. Mick irritates me.

  “Good to see you, Bro,” Brien said as he gawked at Mick. Brien’s handsome face wore a puzzled expression. I wondered what was up, too, since Mick was wearing an aloha shirt with a resort logo on it with boardshorts and Rainbow flip-flops. Before either of us could say more, another familiar voice came from the crowd.

  “Mick, don’t forget Gidget!” Willow Calloway said as she stepped out of the crowd and threw her arms around me. “Let me take that.” Willow slid the garment bag off my shoulder and onto hers. Her blond hair was done up in a chignon, and she wore what appeared to be a spa attendant uniform.

  “Willow, do you work here now?” I asked.

  “Yes. Mick and I both do. We didn’t want to tell you sooner because we weren’t sure what you had decided to do about accepting the job offers here. We didn’t want to influence your decision one way or another.” She did a quick sideways glance at Mick as she said that. She's aware that I find Mick irksome.

  I was so happy to see Willow that my irritation with Mick vanished. The prospect of working with Willow would take away some of the sadness about leaving old friends behind. Not that Brien and I had made our final decision yet. We vowed to do that by the end of this visit though. As he revealed recently, Brien doesn’t like “the limbo.”

  “Uh, the state of being—not the dance,” Brien had pointed out in a solemn tone.

  He was trying to be sensitive to my feelings since I’m a fan of 50s & 60s retro chic. As in Chubby Checker’s Limbo Rock and almost anything having to do with the exotica fads and fancies of that era. Martin Denny’s music, cheongsam Chinese silk dresses, sarongs, Tiki restaurants, sugary drinks with coconut and pineapple, and island life. You name it—I’m a fan!

  It’s one place where Brien’s interests and mine intersect: his love of surfing and my love of the whole beach blanket bingo scene. That was a factor in our attraction to Corsario Cove when we chose it as a honeymoon spot. A big plus in the “pros” column when it comes to deciding whether to work here. The beach life calls to both of us.