by Jeff Shelby
Shannon was just coming out of the water as I hit the sand. She saw me, smiled, and waved.
Which didn't suck at all.
“Hey,” I said. “All done?”
“Yeah,” she said, a little out of breath. “I've got a client dinner tonight, so I have to quit early. Need to get cleaned up and all that.”
“You look fine.”
She laughed. “I appreciate that, but I don't think the client would appreciate me showing up smelling like saltwater and seaweed.”
“You never know.”
“I thought you might be down here when I got here,” she said, wringing out her hair.
“I was actually working,” I told her. “Sort of.”
“Sort of?”
“Helping a friend, and it's just gotten a little weird,” I said. “Not sure what to make of it.”
She pulled a towel from her backpack and ran it over her arms. “Water might help with that.”
“That's what I was thinking,” I said. I repositioned the board tucked under my arm. “Can I ask you a question?”
She smiled. “Sure.”
“You're an architect. Do you do anything on the development side?”
“Well, that's not what I thought was coming,” she said, but still smiling. “Depends on what you mean by do anything. If I'm hired on, I make sure that the contractors know what they're doing and modify the design as needed. I present to the city planners when a project advances to that stage to explain to people how the design won't infringe on things they don't want infringed on. So I think you'd say that I work in conjunction with them.” She wrapped the towel around her neck. “But I don't do any development on my own, no. I'd like to, eventually, but right now? No.”
“So how aggressive are developers when they see a piece of property they want?”
She snorted and shuffled her feet in the sand. “I've yet to meet one that isn't aggressive. I think there are only different degrees of aggressiveness. You're going to need to be more specific.”
“With a piece of land that wasn't for sale,” I said. “And that didn't look like it was going to be for sale. Would it be normal for them to continue to pursue it? Or to create proposals for it?”
“I'll say...maybe,” she said. “Really depends on the parties involved. Normally? I'd say no because those things take time and a developer or a developer company won't want to waste time on things that might never happen.”
“That makes sense,” I said.
“But if there's a relationship, if there are extenuating circumstances?” she said. “Then maybe.”
I was hoping for something more concrete, but her answer didn't surprise me. “Okay. Thanks.”
“I feel like I've disappointed you,” she said, tilting her head to the side, studying me.
“No, no,” I told her, shaking my head. “Just trying to figure some things out. I appreciate your answer.”
She picked up her board and tucked it under her arm. “You're welcome then.”
“We should have dinner again,” I blurted out.
“Yes. We should,” she said, picking up her backpack.
The waves crashed behind her as she slung the pack over her shoulder.
“I'm waiting,” she said.
“For what?”
“You really are not very good at this,” she said. “For you to ask me to dinner.”
“Didn't I just do that?”
“No. You said we should have dinner again and I agreed. There was no formal invitation extended.”
“So I should send, like, an evite?”
She smiled. “Pretty sure that would get lost in the spam folder. And I wouldn't go looking for it.”
“Would you like to have dinner with me?” I asked.
“I would,” she said. “Very much.”
“Tomorrow?”
She shook her head. “Tomorrow's no good. Another client dinner. Following night?”
I nodded. “Following night it is. Can I pick you up this time?”
She shook her head. “No. I'll meet you at the stairs again. And, no pressure, but that food the other night was amazing, so you better make sure whatever we eat is just as good.”
“No pressure,” I said.
She laughed as she trudged up the sand to the stairs.
TWENTY FOUR
I was up early the next morning. I ran a couple miles on the beach, my feet pounding hard against the sand, the sweat pouring off me, trying to work out the stress that had been accumulating in my head and body. I went straight into the water when I was done, not even bothering with a wetsuit, and surfed for another hour, the water heavy and cold. By the time I got back to the house, it was only nine in the morning, but I felt like I'd accomplished a lot.
“Hurry up and shower,” Carter said from the kitchen, standing over a plate of eggs.
“Good morning to you, too.”
“Yeah, well, it's not.”
“Why's that?”
He guzzled half the glass of orange juice next to his plate. “Anne called. Somebody fucked with the motel.”
“Fucked with?”
“Just go shower so we can go and see.”
I showered, dressed, grabbed two granola bars to feed my empty stomach, and we were out the door fifteen minutes later.
Anne was standing in the parking lot of The Blue Wave when we pulled to the curb. She was talking to a police officer, who was jotting down notes on a small notepad. Her arms were wrapped tight around her body, like she was cold, and she looked weary. She had on an oversized sweatshirt, jeans, and running shoes.
The cop closed up the notepad, nodded at us as we approached, and made his way back to his patrol car.
“Thanks for coming,” she said, her voice on the verge of cracking. “I didn't know who else to call.”
“It's fine,” Carter said, eyeing the motel. “What happened?”
She glanced back at the building behind us. “I decided to come down here this morning. Just...I don't know. I hadn't been here and I was just thinking that I needed to come check it out since I'm in charge of it. It's been closed since Mitchell died, so there are no guests or anything like that. I just wanted to see it, I guess.”
“Understandable,” I said.
She took a deep breath and her body shivered as she exhaled. “Let me show you.”
We followed her across the parking lot. The motel was L-shaped, with exterior doors, the parking lot in the middle of the L. The rooms in the bottom part of the L all faced west toward the ocean and she walked us over to the very last room on the right. I could see the window to the room was shattered, most of the glass swept into a pile beneath where it had been a whole piece, the broom propped up against the wall. The door to the room was open and I could see that it had been splintered around the lock.
“The door was wide open when I got here,” Anne explained. “The glass was all over the place.”
“Anything missing?” Carter asked, peering into the room.
“Not that I can tell,” she said, stepping past the busted door. “But come look at this.”
The motel room was small and the décor felt aged, but it was clean, with a picture window on the far wall that looked over the boardwalk and out to the Pacific.
The only thing that wasn't quaint about the room was the graffiti painted on the wall above the bed.
Someone had painted “NOT YOURS” in black spray paint just above the wooden headboard.
“There's another one just like it upstairs,” Anne said, her arms again wrapped around her midsection. “Door was broken the same way and the same thing was painted in the room.”
“Are there video cameras or anything like that?” I asked. “Anything that would have captured what happened?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Mitchell never got around to installing them. I got here and saw it all and called the police, then called you guys.” She stared at the wall for a moment, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “I just can't b
elieve this. I am not equipped to deal with this.”
“Nobody is,” Carter said, walking around the room, taking it all in. “Certainly seems like someone wanted to send you a message.”
“Well, I've received it,” she said. She used both hands to brush at her eyes. “And I'm going to sell.”
“Really?” I said. “You already made up your mind?”
“I hadn't,” she admitted. “Not until I got here. This sort of clinches it for me. I'm not cut out to run this place and I'm not cut out to handle this.” She waved her hand toward the graffiti. “This. I don't have the money to clean this up or fix the doors or the windows.”
“There's probably insurance,” I said.
“Which I'd have to wait to be reimbursed on,” she said pointedly. Then she shook her head. “I just need to realize that this is the best thing. I have no idea why he'd leave it to me, but I just can't do it.”
Anne was overwhelmed, and it was understandable. She hadn't been expecting the motel and now there seemed to be something else at work. She didn't want to deal with it. I didn’t blame her.
Still, I didn't like the fact that someone was bullying her into the decision.
“It'll take some time,” I told her. “To get it all put together.”
“I know,” she said. “But I'm going to talk to that attorney guy and tell him I don't want it.”
“Okay,” I said. “When the selling starts, you should run the financial numbers by Carter's friend again. Because there's going to be a lot of money involved.”
Anne looked at me. “For this old motel?” She couldn’t hide her disbelief.
“For this land,” I clarified. “I had a couple of conversations today. There are going to be a lot of people interested in buying it. The price will be high. It won't happen overnight.”
She blinked, processing my words. “So the motel will be gone?”
I nodded. “Yeah. I don't think there's any way it stays. The land is too valuable and it can be developed to make a lot more money.”
She sat down on the edge of the bed, the frame squeaking beneath her. “If I sell it, then I kill The Blue Wave.” Her voice was soft, almost as if she were talking to herself.
Neither Carter nor I said anything.
“Shit,” she muttered. “Unbelievable.”
“You could look for a buyer who wants the motel,” Carter said, his hands in his shorts pockets. “But they'd probably be hard to find.”
I nodded in agreement.
“But if he left it to you, then it's yours to deal with,” Carter added. “And if selling it makes the most sense for you, then that's what you do. You can't answer to a ghost.”
I nodded in agreement with that, too.
She sighed. “I know. I just...shit. I just don't want to deal with this.” She cradled her head in her hands. “But I have to.”
“You called the cops,” I said. “That was the right step for what happened over night. That's the best you can do for today. Take things one step at a time. The motel isn't going anywhere.”
“I guess,” she said. It looked like an effort, but she finally pulled herself off the bed and into a standing position. “Thank you for coming over. Both of you. I know you must think I'm a raving lunatic at this point.”
“A lot thrown at you,” Carter said. “Nobody thinks you're a lunatic.”
The cop that had been there when we'd arrived knocked on the broken door. “I'd like to get some photos and go over a couple of questions I have.”
Anne nodded. “Of course.” She looked at both Carter and me. “Thanks again for coming.”
She followed the officer out and they made their way upstairs to the second level of rooms.
“What do you think?” Carter asked.
“I think someone wants her to sell,” I said, pointing at the wall. “That isn't random.”
“But who?”
“I think there's a long list,” I said, and told him about the two conversations I'd had the previous day with the developers.
“And those are just two you know about,” Carter said when I finished. “Could be others.”
“Absolutely.”
“And it doesn't include the widow Henderson.”
“Correct,” I said. “And I think I want to talk to her again.”
“Why?”
I pointed at the wall again. “That. And just all of this. She's the one who was really bent about the motel being left to Anne. The developers already knew about his death and I can't help but wonder if she'd touched base with them, thinking she'd be the one to profit from the sale. I think it all starts with her.”
Carter looked out the window. “Seems as good a place to start as any.”
TWENTY FIVE
I found Rose Henderson's address in the financial file she'd given me. It was a single-story ranch in lower Bay Park, just a couple of streets over from where I'd grown up and where Carolina still lived. The yard looked professionally manicured, the yard a bright emerald green, and the flowers surrounding it popping with pinks and yellows. The edges around the yard and at the curb were immaculate, as if they'd been trimmed with a razor blade.
Rose was on her porch, tending to several of the plants on the railing, when I parked at the curb. She eyed me cautiously, setting the watering can down and wiping her hands on her khaki pants.
“Mr. Braddock,” she said, standing near the top of the three steps that led to the porch. Her lips were red, her eyeliner harsh. “This is a surprise.”
“You busy?” I asked.
“Just doing what you see,” she said, inclining her head at the flowers she’d been tending. “How can I help you?”
I cut right to the chase. “The motel was vandalized last night,” I said. “The Blue Wave.”
She stiffened. “What happened?”
“Couple of rooms were broken into,” I said. “Some spray painting inside the rooms. Anne called me this morning and we went down to take a look. She reported it to the police.”
She came slowly down the steps to the concrete walk that abutted the yard. “That's good, I suppose. That she reported. Was the damage extensive?”
“From what I saw? Not really. Door locks, the doors themselves. A couple of windows. Then the spray paint. I only saw one of the rooms that was broken into.”
She blinked several times, studying the sidewalk. “Mitchell never put in those cameras.”
“That's what Anne said, too.”
“He didn't like new technology,” she continued. “Nor the cost. I'd pestered him for quite some time to install, but he never got around to it.” She looked up from the ground. “Do they have any idea who did it?”
“Not to my knowledge,” I told her. “The message was specific, though.”
“The message?”
“That was painted on the wall,” I said. “Not yours.”
She looked at me, not understanding.
“'Not yours' was what was painted on the wall.”
The cloud of confusion lifted and I could tell she understood what it meant. “That's awful.”
“Agree,” I said. “So who would do that?”
“I have no idea.”
I didn't say anything.
We stood like that for a moment before it dawned on her what I was really asking.
“You can't believe that I'd have anything to do with something like that,” she said, her voice cold.
“I can believe anything if I see enough proof,” I said.
She stared at me for a long moment.
I stared back.
“So,” she finally said. Her voice was cool, calm. “You believe that I went to my husband's business and purposely caused damage? To...scare Anne? That's what you believe?”
“I know that you aren't happy that the motel was left to someone else,” I said. “You told me that yourself. I know that someone seems to be threatening her directly. I saw evidence of that this morning.”
“And you think I did that? That I thre
atened her? By breaking into the motel?”
“Did you?”
Her jaw vibrated it was clenched so tight. Her hands were balled into fists. For a moment, I thought she might charge me.
She took a deep breath and forced her hands to unclench, flexing her fingers. “Mr. Braddock, you are an idiot.”
I shrugged.
“Yes, I believe that motel should've been left to me,” Rose said, her eyes like daggers as they raked over me. “And, no, I don't believe Anne is capable of taking it over and running it. Mitchell was the person most capable of doing that and even he was failing. So I don't believe she'll fare any better.” She paused. “But you are an idiot if you think I would commit a crime because of those things. I may be angry and I may be confused, but I am not a criminal and have no intention of changing that now.” Her eyes blazed. “And you may not believe this, but I loved my husband. Very much. I miss him. Very much. I wouldn't do anything to hurt that motel because it was the thing he cared most about in this world. No matter how I feel about it not being mine, I'd never bring any harm to that place. Never.” She straightened up and took another breath. “I hope that message was specific enough for you.”
Rose Henderson turned, ascended the steps, pulled the door open to her home, and let the screen door slam behind her.
TWENTY SIX
I left Rose Henderon's pretty convinced that she hadn't done anything to the motel.
It was easy for someone to lie. It wasn't, however, easy to fake the kind of rage she'd exhibited when I'd accused her of having something to do with what happened at The Blue Wave. I'd shown up without warning, so she hadn't had time to formulate a story or cover. Her anger at my suggestion seemed genuine.
Which put me back at square one.
I headed downtown to talk to Wellton. I wanted to tell him about the little bit more I'd learned, what had happened at the motel, and see if he thought there was any fire to the smoke.
What I didn't want to do was run into District Attorney Christina Benavides.
