by Janet Dawson
I nodded, recalling something that happened several years ago, when two local women went walking on the ocean’s edge, accompanied by a dog. A wave must have swept them out into the Pacific, which doesn’t often live up to its name. The dog—or what was left of it—washed ashore several weeks later. I don’t think anyone ever found the remains of the women.
Sometimes the ocean lulls you into a false sense of security, even on a broad sandy sweep, like Monastery Beach just south of Carmel. The locals call it Mortuary Beach, with good reason. Here on the Pacific side, the continent ends abruptly. The ocean floor doesn’t deepen gradually, like it does on Atlantic beaches. Just under the surface of all that lovely blue-green water is a vicious undertow and an undersea cliff that plunges suddenly deep. Mortuary Beach has claimed its share of victims.
“I hate talking about Ariel in the past tense,” Donna said, her voice quiet. “But I’m afraid she went into the water.”
“What if she was meeting someone at Rocky Point? Does anyone at the restaurant recall seeing her?”
“I would hope that the sheriff’s department has asked that question. Whether they’ve gotten any answers, I don’t know.”
“I assume you have a reason for telling me all this. What do you want me to do?”
Donna fixed me with a gaze from her blue eyes. “Talk to Bobby. After my friend at the sheriff’s department called yesterday, I went to see Bobby. He seemed surprised, shocked, upset. He didn’t know Ariel was missing. He’d tried to call her at her parents’ house several times over the weekend and kept getting the answering machine. So he figured she’d gone back to school. He tried to reach at her apartment down there, with no luck. Couldn’t even get Ariel’s roommate. Bobby says he hadn’t seen or talked with Ariel since Friday, when they had the argument. But he wouldn’t say what they were arguing about.”
“You and Bobby have always been close. If he won’t tell you, what makes you think he’ll tell me?”
“I figure if we both work on him, maybe one of us will get him to talk.” Donna shrugged. “You know how stubborn he can be. Tuesday it was just Ariel missing. But those phone calls give me a bad feeling. Anyone could have seen Bobby and Ariel arguing at the Rose and Crown. Obviously whoever is making those anonymous calls did.”
I got to my feet and stepped back onto the Rec Trail. “Okay, I’ll talk to him. Is he likely to be at Ravella’s this afternoon?”
“Why do you think I suggested a late lunch there?” Donna said as she joined me on the path.
I grinned. “I thought it was a sudden urge for squid and chips.”
“Nick and Tina don’t know anything about this,” she warned as we walked toward Fisherman’s Wharf. “At least not yet. But they will soon. The rumor mill is already working overtime. You can’t keep a secret in a small town. And despite the population figures and the big-city pretensions, Monterey’s a small town.”
About the Author
JANET DAWSON’S first Jeri Howard novel, Kindred Crimes, won the St. Martin’s Press/Private Eye Writers of America Best First Private Eye Novel Contest. It was nominated for Shamus, Anthony, and Macavity awards in the Best First Novel category. In addition to the Jeri Howard series, she has written numerous short stories, including Macavity winner “Voice Mail,” and Shamus nominee “Slayer Statute.” For more information on Janet Dawson and her books, check her website at www.janetdawson.com.
