Murder at Redwood Cove

by Janet Finsilver

  Helen’s face flushed. “I’m happy to help. Would you like anything else?”

  “No thank you.”

  Helen twisted the dish towel tucked into her apron strings. “Thanks for the time you took with Tommy. He said he likes you. That means a lot, coming from him.”

  “I like him, too.”

  “If there’s anything you need, just call. I’m on the automatic dialer. I have wine and cheese available for our guests until seven. People can call with questions until nine, and I keep the fire going until ten.” She stopped and tugged at the towel. “I’ve been the person responsible for emergencies for the last two nights. Luckily, there haven’t been any.”

  “Helen, emergencies are now my problem.”

  Helen’s shoulders visibly relaxed. I pulled the file from the plastic container on the wall marked EMERGENCIES—a company requirement for all managers’ offices.

  I reviewed the plans. “I can handle this. Bob was a very organized individual.”

  “Yes, he was.”

  Heaviness returned to her voice. “I hope you enjoy your dinner.”

  “Thanks again for your hospitality. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Helen left, and I picked up the tray and placed it on the desk. There was a light knock on the door, and I opened it.

  “Ahh, Ms. Jackson, so delightful to see you again.” The Professor entered the room holding his gray wool cap in his hand. “The group is gathering. An impromptu potluck is creating itself. For better or for worse, Rudy is bringing his borscht. It all depends on your relationship with beets, you know. Love or hate.”

  I handed him the envelope of papers. “Bob used a note system that looks like a challenge to crack. Maybe the group can figure it out. If so, it might give you something to take to the deputy sheriff.”

  The Professor tucked the envelope under the arm of his brown tweed jacket. “We appreciate the fact that you take us seriously and are willing to help.”

  “I watched my grandfather deal with becoming ‘invisible.’ Your group is a wonderful role model.” I sighed. “We have a young boy who blames himself for Bob’s death. Not logical, but that’s what he believes. If Bob was murdered, Tommy can let go of that guilt. And”—I looked at the slight, gray-haired gentleman—“we can catch a killer.”

  Chapter 8

  After the Professor left, I began putting Bob’s files back into the safe. I kept the employee folders and a few of the thicker vendor ones out to review in my room. As I closed the safe, I frowned, leaned forward, and examined its door. The small plate covering the keyhole was gone, and there were slight scratch marks. I searched for the missing piece and found it on the floor under the desk. I sat down in the chair, putting the piece next to the safe.

  Should I call the deputy sheriff? I shook my head. Nope. The safe wasn’t open; there’s nothing obvious missing. I will ask Helen when this room was last vacuumed. It might give us an idea of when the piece landed on the floor.

  I put the folders from the safe in my backpack, slung it over my shoulder, and picked up the dinner tray. As I passed the conference room, I noticed the door was open and the light on. Peeking in, I saw silver heads bent over the papers I’d given the Professor. The group’s hastily assembled meal consisted of earthenware mugs filled with ruby red liquid, thick salami and cheese sandwiches piled on a plate, and a tray of lemon bars next to Mary Rutledge. The earthy smell of beets pervaded the room.

  Rudy spied me at the door. “You are a true princess. Thank you so much for the treasure you’ve given us.”

  “Yah. We don’t know yet,” Ivan said, “but we solve it soon.”

  “Ms. Jackson, we’ve made progress!” The Professor held up a sheet of paper.

  “Professor, please call me Kelly”—I smiled—“or I’ll be using ‘Mr. Herbert Winthrop.’”

  “Quite. Kelly it is.” His eyes twinkled. He nodded and pointed to some numbers. “We suspect these are dates, but that’s as far as we’ve gotten. We’ll let you know as soon as we learn anything more.”

  I put my things on the table and pulled out business cards from one of the backpack’s zippered pockets. “This has my cell phone number on it.” I handed one to each member. “Call if you find something.”

  “Would you like some of my famous borscht?” Rudy reached for a mug.

  “I’ll pass, but thanks for asking. Helen fixed me dinner.” Besides, beets weren’t one of my favorite foods. I picked up my things. “I need to do some paperwork.”

  “Honey, take some dessert with you,” Mary’s soft voice urged. “A gust of wind would blow you away.”

  “No thanks, but I appreciate the offer. They look great.” I headed for the door. “Good luck with your deciphering.”

  A symphony of good nights followed me out of the room.

  I flipped on my room lights and went into the kitchenette, putting the tray and my bag on the counter. A handwritten note next to the two coffee canisters proclaimed them to be MOUNTAIN JIM’S, THE BEST IN THE WEST, and gave directions. I poured decaf beans into the luxury coffeemaker. As the aroma of freshly ground coffee brewing filled the small living quarters, I uncovered the plate. An herb-covered chicken breast and thigh nestled between brown rice with sautéed mushrooms and vivid green broccoli dusted with Parmesan. Perfect. I carried the tray and paperwork to the sitting room and put them on the table. I opened the Pellegrino and poured the fizzling water into the glass of ice.

  A swirling gray curtain of fog pushed against the panes of glass. I shivered, went to the gas fireplace, and switched it on. The warm glow pushed the chill away. I stifled a yawn, looking at my watch.

  They went to bed early on the ranch, and their time zone was a couple of hours later. I thought I’d better call to see how Sis was doing. The babies were due two days ago.

  I dialed the number, and my mother answered.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Kelly, I’m so glad you called. I was beginning to worry.”

  I felt a rush of guilt. “I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to get up to speed here.”

  “You know me. Always the worrier.” She paused. “It’s hard to stop being a mother.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to ever stop.”

  “And I promise I won’t say any more about your new job.”

  Back to this. Mom couldn’t understand why I left the family ranch to take the position with Resorts International. My need to prove myself. I visualized her straightening her back and doing her stiff-upper-lip routine.

  “Just remember, there’s always a job here for you,” she added.

  “I know, Mom.”

  “It’s not charity, either. You’re good at what you do.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” Time to change the subject. “Any news on when the twins will make their grand entrance into this world?”

  “No, but we’re staying in town starting tomorrow until they’re born.”

  “Good idea. How’s Liz holding up?”

  “Chipper as always.” Mom laughed. “Her crazy Italian husband, on the other hand, is a basket case.”

  Dark-eyed, curly-haired Tony. He worshiped the ground my sister walked on.

  I reached for my water. “I’m glad to hear she’s okay.”

  “We’ll call as soon as there’s any news.”

  “Thanks, Mom. Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  “Tell Dad and everyone hi for me.”

  “Will do.”

  I snapped my phone shut.

  The coffeemaker beeped. I found a mug and filled it with dark, aromatic liquid. As I took a sip, I decided the coffee deserved the title Best in the West.

  Returning to the main room, I settled in to learn more about Redwood Cove Bed-and-Breakfast. I spread the paperwork out in front of me and took a bite of chicken. Tender, with a hint of fresh rosemary. I flipped through the folder labeled A TASTE OF CHOCOLATE AND WINE FESTIVAL as I ate. Resorts International donated the use of the inn’s grounds. The Redwood Cove Artists organiz
ed the event. Plans for tables and tents, with rows neatly drawn and everything labeled, were provided, along with a use agreement. Lists of vendors, musical groups, and items for the silent auction were clipped to a note saying, “For your information” and signed by Ralph Peterson, Event Coordinator. The festival appeared to be good to go.

  I finished the last piece of broccoli, grabbed my coffee and the remaining files, and went to the window seat. In spite of the warm room, I was chilled to the bone as damp wisps swirled by the window. A soft light green wool blanket was folded on the end of the seat. I settled into a corner of the cushions and pulled it up around me. Holding the hot mug between my hands, I thought about Bob’s death.

  The Sentinels seemed certain he was murdered, but there wasn’t one shred of concrete evidence. The deputy sheriff figured an employee had disturbed the papers, looking for something. I reached for the staff folder and flipped through it. Employees were minimal—Daniel, Helen, and a small cleaning crew who’d been with the place for over twelve years. Bob and his wife rounded out the group.

  The scratch marks took the situation to a deeper level. There had been no calls to the main office indicating a need for something in the safe. An attempted burglary? But who? I read the names on the list again. Daniel? Helen? I thought about Daniel’s loving concern for Tommy and Helen’s reaction upon opening the office door. I’d only just met them, but they seemed unlikely.

  I didn’t buy the deputy sheriff’s take on what happened in the office. I felt even stronger about it with the discovery that someone had tampered with the safe. If Bob was murdered, then maybe he had something the person wanted—something that might be the proof they needed to find the killer.

  I retrieved my room key, picked up the tray of dishes, and passed the now dark conference room. Dim lights illumined the hallway. I entered the cavernous workroom and kitchen area and turned on the lights. I rinsed my plate and the utensils and put them in the dishwasher.

  A loud thud from the parlor startled me.

  I was about to investigate, then hesitated. There had been a lot of talk about murder today, and I believed the office had been searched. Had the person returned? No, if someone was after something Bob had, they’d already had a chance to search for it, so why return? I mentally pushed myself forward and my feet followed. The hallway’s wooden floor creaked and groaned as I trod on its century-old boards.

  I entered the living room. Several crystal lamps provided small pools of light. Their glow struggled to reach the room’s far corners and failed. The high ceilings were cloaked in darkness.

  Only a few glowing embers remained of the fire. One exploded, sounding like the crack of a rifle. I jumped, then chided myself for being so edgy. I walked farther into the room. A book lay on the floor next to a high-backed wing chair. An arm dangled over the chair’s edge.

  Chapter 9

  I took in a deep breath as I walked around to the front of the chair. Andy Brown, the cheese connoisseur, sat slumped against the padded back.

  Grabbing his arm, I shook it gently. No response. “Mr. Brown, wake up.” I began to panic. A harder shake. “Wake up, Mr. Brown.” Harder yet.

  The man shouted.

  I shrieked.

  Andy’s eyes flew open. “A samurai was bringing his sword down.” He rubbed his face. “Good timing, Ms. Jackson. You saved me.”

  Relieved, I laughed. “I’m glad to hear it, Mr. Brown.”

  “Please call me Andy. I’m here a lot.”

  “And Kelly works for me.”

  He looked at the fireplace. “Mesmerizing. Before I dozed off, I was imagining what the Anderson family, the ones who built the house, would’ve been doing in the late eighteen hundreds. Reading the Bible? The missus knitting?” Andy checked his watch and rose. “Off to bed. Tomorrow’s a busy day. The Happy Goats Cheese Company has new cheeses to sample.” He grinned broadly. “Tough job, but someone’s got to do it.” He picked up his book and bid me good night.

  His heavy footsteps echoed on the stairs, his breathing labored, and his hand slid on the rail as he headed for his room.

  I checked the lock on the front door. A tree scraped its branches on the window—the scratching noises reminding me of the marks on the safe. Had it been attempted robbery? Or a murderer searching for something?

  The next morning I sat at the workroom table crossing items off my to-do list. A couple of knocks sounded on the back door and Suzie gazed through the back door window.

  She poked her head in. “Hi! Mind if I come in?” Her voice was as energetic as I remembered from the day before.

  “Please do.”

  Suzie swung the door open. “FYI—most of the inn managers have an open-door policy. We drop in if we need something. Don’t be surprised if you find an IOU in one of the cupboards. If that’s a problem, I’ll let the others know.” Suzie smiled. “We take care of each other.”

  “Good to know.” I returned the smile. “It’s not often you see people in a competitive industry working as a community.”

  “It’s a small town. We’re all here together when the tourists are gone.” Suzie sat at my table. “I’m sorry I had to leave yesterday before you got back. Issues at the hotel. I stopped by to see if you need anything.”

  “No problem. I’d like to find out what Bob was doing on Monday. It’ll help me step into his shoes and understand this job better.” I reached for my coffee. “Did you see him that day?”

  “I did. Hey, why don’t we talk about it over lunch, and I can introduce you to one of the locals’ favorite spots to eat, Noah’s Place.”

  “Sounds wonderful.”

  “We can circle through town, and I’ll show you a couple of places your guests might like to visit.”

  “I’d love to.” I didn’t know how long I’d be managing the place, but it made sense to learn more about Redwood Cove.

  “Will eleven work?”

  “That’s fine.”

  “See you then.” Suzie waved her way out the door.

  I read over my notes. Productive morning. I’d met the rest of the staff, made an appointment for three thirty with Phil Xanthis to sample new wines, and acquainted myself with the other suppliers Bob used. I’d called the hospital and found out Bob’s wife had been taken off the intensive care list. Some good news for a change. I still had an hour before meeting Suzie. Time to write the report.

  Helen came in with a load of napkin-covered baskets on a cart and put them on the counter, between the working area and the kitchen. “Good morning.” She began taking dirty dishes out of the baskets.

  “Let me help.” Bob’s wife had assisted with some of the chores, according to her job description. Her absence meant more work for Helen.

  “Thanks, but I can manage.” Helen started putting breakfast dishes into the dishwasher. “I’m sure you have a lot to do.”

  “I need to get a few things done, but there’s time for that later.” I admired the cheerful blue and white pattern on the dishes as I unloaded the containers. “Thanks for the breakfast you left outside the room. The almond croissant melted in my mouth.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “I bake all the pastries from scratch.”

  “That takes a lot of skill. I know, having tried it once. Once being the operative word there.”

  Helen laughed. “I’d be happy to show you how.”

  “I might take you up on that.” I emptied the last basket. “Right now it’s report time.”

  We both looked around as a quick series of knocks on the door interrupted us.

  Helen waved in a stout man in a chef’s tunic. “Kelly, I’d like you to meet Jason Whitcomb.”

  “Hi, Jason. I’m Kelly Jackson, interim manager.” I held out my hand, and Jason clasped it with a warm, moist grip and exercised my arm with energetic shakes.

  “Glad to meet you.” He put a box on the counter. “Helen, wait until you see what I brought.”

  “
Jason and I love to bake and share recipes and ideas. He’s been working on some creations for the chocolate and wine festival.”

  Jason appeared young, in spite of the streaks of gray hair at his temples. He had cheeks like apples—round and rosy. I figured many a mother was tempted to reach out and pinch them.

  He grabbed a card out of his pocket and handed it to me. “I work in a restaurant in San Francisco on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays. I bake for the Ralston Hotel Thursdays through Sundays. I’m building a catering business during the time I have between my shifts at the restaurant.”

  “Good to know you’re available.” I read the information on his card.

  “Yeah. As soon as I’m making enough money, I want to move up here full-time.” With a gleam in his eye, he turned to Helen, his hand hovering over the box’s lid. “Are you ready?”

  “Absolutely. You never cease to amaze, and I’m sure this time won’t be any different,” Helen replied.

  With a dramatic flick of his hand, he pulled back the top, reached in, and pulled out a small tray.

  “Ohh . . .” Helen breathed.

  I took a step closer. Six cupcakes nestled together, but these weren’t just any cupcakes. They were works of art. Each had a musical instrument on top. How did he make the strings for the violin? The keys for the piano? The stands for the drums?

  “Those are incredible.” I bent closer.

  Jason rocked up and down on the balls of his feet. “Thank you. Thank you.” He clapped his hands together and moved to get dishes from the counter. “There’s more to come.”

  Jason placed a cupcake on each plate, and Helen handed him a knife. He cut one in half and pushed the sides apart. Chocolate oozed out from the center of the pastry.

  “It’s my version of a lava cake.”

  “Jason, you’ve outdone yourself.” Helen handed me a fork.

  “Thanks,” he said. A Cheshire cat couldn’t produce a bigger grin. “I decided on the instruments because I wanted to remind people the event is a fund-raiser for the Redwood Cove Music Festival.”

  “That’s smart,” Helen said.

  “Taste. Taste,” he urged me.