Murder on the Lost Coast (He said, She said Mystery Series Book 2)

by Jeramy Gates

  Book Two

  He said, She said:

  Murder on the Lost Coast

  By:

  Jeramy Gates

  Published by Timber Hill Press

  Chapter 1

  Tanja Shepherd

  I braced myself against the rail as a rogue wave slammed into the starboard side of our little twenty-seven foot cutter. The sailboat tilted precariously and ice-cold saltwater flooded across the deck. The waves tugged at my clothes, nearly sweeping my feet out from under me. I found myself staring into a tumultuous maelstrom of foamy green seawater. Directly in front of me the mast stretched out, almost horizontal, almost touching the waves. Something about that didn’t seem right.

  My stomach knotted up as I drew my gaze along the boom and found Joe grinning back at me from the wheel. He paused long enough to give me a thumbs-up, and then turned his attention back to his work, guiding us over the next wave. The boat rolled back into a reasonably upright position and it was then that I realized I’d been holding my breath. I filled my lungs with cold Pacific air and listened to the receding noise of my heartbeat pounding in my ears.

  It was early evening, possibly around five. A dense fog was closing in fast, and the sun was a dull orange halo sinking beneath the waves. I was soaked from the waist down. My feet and hands were numb with cold. I was shivering, but at least I still had enough feeling to know that I was cold. It’s when that feeling goes away that you’re in real trouble.

  We plowed through another wave, and I heard the sound of pots and pans clanging around inside the cabin. It suddenly seemed ironic that while planning this trip, I hadn’t thought about the wind, the waves, or the turn-your-skin-blue freezing-cold water. I wasn’t even afraid of drowning. Sharks had been my main concern. No, really. Sharks.

  After all, there are so many sharks off the NorCal coast that the area is colloquially known as the Red Triangle. Not just any sharks, either. We’re talking about great whites. Thousands of ‘em. Tens of thousands. More than a third of the world’s great white attacks happen right here, right beneath these foamy waves.

  Somehow, in the last few hours, sharks had become the least of my worries. If a big enough wave hit us, or if I lost my grip at the wrong time, I’d be dead long before the sharks ever found me. The violent undertow would suck me right to the bottom. I’d be miles out to sea in a matter of seconds. The real question was whether the shock and hypothermia would kill me before I had time to drown. I wondered which would be more painful…

  Another wave crashed over the bow, and the ice-cold spray hit me like a slap in the face. I shook it off, blinking against the tears as I glared at my husband. My eyes were burning holes through the back of his skull. Unfortunately, since he’s Joe, he didn’t notice.

  Happy anniversary, I thought as I leaned over the rail and lost my lunch.

  Chapter 2

  Joe Shepherd

  If the road to hell is paved with good intentions, I’m captain of the road crew. When I arranged for our anniversary weekend at the Lost Coast Inn, an exclusive resort on the north coast, I meant only the best. It had taken a lot of work, a lot of planning, and I imagined it as the dream honeymoon we’d never had. I’d spent months putting money aside and making arrangements so that everything would be perfect. When all the pieces were finally in place, I told her. I was grinning from ear to ear as I handed Tanja the brochure and watched her flip through the pages.

  “This is incredible,” she said, scanning the pictures of cedar hot tubs, tennis courts, and the award winning restaurant. “I didn’t even know this place existed.” She lowered the brochure, her gorgeous hazel eyes staring into mine, blonde wisps framing her cheekbones. “Joe, how can we afford this?”

  “I’ve been saving some money.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Money from where, exactly?”

  “Remember that side job I did? When Mr. Patterson asked me to find his missing Pomeranian?”

  “You said the dog turned up at the animal shelter.”

  “I lied.”

  She punched me in the arm. “You got paid for that? And you kept it secret?”

  “It was for us,” I said. “So I could surprise you for our anniversary.”

  Tanja was still skeptical. She held up the brochure in front of me. “You did not make enough money to pay for this resort… not by finding a lost dog.”

  “No, but when Mr. Patterson’s neighbor lost her cat, he was happy to recommend me. And then her brother’s wolf hybrid went missing up in Mendocino a few weeks ago.”

  “Wait… Isn’t that when you told me you were going fishing?”

  I winked slyly.

  “But Sheriff Diekmann-”

  “He covered for me,” I said.

  A smile turned up the corners of Tanja’s mouth. “Are you telling me that you’ve been moonlighting all this time as a pet detective?”

  “Not a word,” I said. “You ever tell anyone about this, and it’ll be the last anniversary surprise you ever get.”

  “I promise, not a word.” She made the motion of turning a lock on her lips, and then swallowing the key. “What about the baby?”

  “Grandma already agreed to watch Autumn. She and Diekmann are looking forward to it.”

  “Oh? Did Annette finally ask him to move in?”

  I made a grumbling noise, indicating that I didn’t want to talk about it. Tanja got the hint, and of course completely ignored it.

  “When did Bill move in? Are they going to get married?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, heading for the garage. She continued talking as the door closed between us, apparently not realizing that I couldn’t hear her anymore. As the sound of her voice faded, I stood there in the dark, not moving to turn on the light, not doing anything but breathing in the smell of oily rags and spring-fresh dryer sheets.

  I know what you’re thinking: Grandma has every right to move on. Grandpa died years ago, and it’s none of my business if she wants to start over again. In her seventies. With Sheriff Diekmann, who used to be Grandpa’s best friend.

  I just can’t help it. The whole thing churns my stomach. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I’ve always had this romantic notion in my head that when two people are meant to be with each other -when they’ve been together for that long- that death doesn’t really mean anything. I guess I just expected Grandma to live out her last few years alone, knitting and staring out the window, waiting to join Grandpa in heaven. I know it’s wrong for me to think that way, and it’s none of my business if she wants to start over again. I’m trying to accept it.

  The problem is, as soon as I come to grips with it, the situation evolves. First, Grandma’s dating again. Yuck. Okay, I can deal with it. But wait… It’s not just anyone she’s dating. It’s Bill Diekmann (cold shudders). Fine. I’ll accept it; I’ll learn to live with it. Then it gets better: They’re shacking up!

  Okay, let’s all jump for joy. Grandma’s shacking up with the sheriff. I know that being in your seventies isn’t like it used to be. People of that age are healthy now. They enjoy life. They’re vibrant, active. They have sex. But the thought of Grandma and Diekmann getting it on is like walking in on mom and dad when you’re five. It changes everything, and not in a good way. It changes things in a way that makes you uncomfortable and slightly nauseous for at least a decade. It’s an image you try to get out of your head for the rest of your life.

  I opened the freezer and stood in the long rectangle of light that stretched across the concrete floor at my feet. I wasn’t sure I was ready to accept Grandma living with Diekmann,
but it wasn’t my decision. I just couldn’t help thinking of Grandpa up in heaven, looking down at her. What would he say? Would he forgive her? Was he waiting for her, expecting her to wait for him?

  I don’t know. They say that sort of thing doesn’t matter in heaven; that people become like angels and there’s no such thing as pain or grief. It’s hard enough to imagine a life without suffering or fear, but what about commitment? What about true love and soul-mates? Is that all just a bunch of nonsense? Maybe it is. I suppose that’s just one more thing I’ll have to come to grips with, thanks to the sheriff.

  I grabbed a lasagna and closed the freezer door. For a moment, the garage became pitch black. Gradually, my eyes adjusted to the darkness, and the narrow slits of light shining through the garage door were enough to help me find my way back into the house.

  Tanja was already on the phone, telling her sister about our upcoming vacation. I listened with a quiet smile as I turned on the oven and slid the lasagna out of the box. What Tanja didn’t know was that I still hadn’t told her the best part. She didn’t figure it out until she got off the phone about twenty minutes later. The lasagna was still in the oven and the smell of it was making my stomach growl. Tanja was sitting on the couch, thumbing through the brochure, and I was at the computer desk in the corner.

  “Joe, according to this, it says the retreat is on the Lost Coast.”

  “Yep, it’s way up north, not far from the Oregon border.”

  “Right, and it says it’s called that because there’s no way in or out, except by helicopter or boat.”

  “There’s a Jeep trail,” I offered.

  “A seasonal Jeep trail, Joe. We’re going in October.”

  A momentary silence hung between us, she waiting for my confession, me suddenly realizing that this may have been a make-or-break moment in our relationship. It was one of those times when you realize that you’ve done something really, really wrong. You didn’t mean to, it just happened. You were so caught up in the rightness of the whole situation that the one little wrong part didn’t seem like a big deal. Until it was.

  I seem to have a lot of those moments.

  “Joe, what is it that you are not telling me?”

  “About what?”

  She rose from the sofa and hovered over me like an angry schoolteacher, waving the brochure under my nose. “How are we getting there?”

  I took a deep breath.

  “Well?” she demanded.

  “We’re taking the boat.”

  I winced as she psychically punched me in the face. I’m pretty sure she did, anyway. Fortunately, not being psychic, I wasn’t hurt. Tanja glared at me for a good thirty seconds before collapsing back onto the couch. When she spoke again, her tone had changed:

  “Joe, you know I’m terrified of sharks.”

  “There won’t be any sharks.”

  “Are you crazy? Northern California has the highest population of sharks in the world. The entire world, Joe.”

  “That’s not true. Besides, we’re not going to see any sharks. We’ll be on the boat. We’ll skip right up the coast and be docked and checked in for dinnertime. It’ll be over so fast you’ll hardly notice it happened.”

  “Like last night?” she said, raising her eyebrow.

  “That’s not nice.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m not going.”

  I stood up, taking her in my arms. Tanja shied away uncomfortably. I tried to assure her that she’d seen too many movies:

  “Great white sharks don’t attack sailboats,” I explained. “They eat seals and stuff like that. I know that I’m just a detective, not some genius movie producer from Hollywood, but I’m pretty sure sharks don’t carry a grudge.”

  I may as well have been talking to a wall.

  It took dinner and a few glasses of wine for Tanja to mellow out. I found some great pictures of the resort on the internet to help her focus on the good aspects of the trip, and I went into great detail about how reliable the boat was, and how Diekmann and I had taken it out three times since I’d finished the restoration.

  “It’s solid as a rock,” I said proudly. “You have nothing to worry about.”

  She fixed me with an unblinking stare and said, “And what do rocks do in the ocean, Joe?”

  Chapter 3

  Tanja

  Not long after our close call the storm blew itself out, but the fun wasn’t over yet. We were still riding eight-foot swells. It was dark, the fog was getting thick, and I was a little worried about the many rocks thrusting up through the waves. Joe assured me he was keeping a close eye on the sonar. According to the GPS, we were well ahead of schedule.

  “We caught the edge of that storm front,” he said. “It gave us a nice boost in speed.”

  “If that was the edge of the storm, I don’t want to know what the rest of it was like.”

  Joe patted the wheel and grinned. “I told you Agatha would hold up fine. I didn’t think we’d be here for another forty-five minutes.”

  “Here?”

  Joe pointed. Through the drifting fog, I saw a flash of light on a hill off the starboard side. It gradually morphed into the shape of a lighthouse. “That’s it? That’s the place?”

  “Dead Man’s Bay is just around the other side.”

  I frowned at him. “Dead Man’s Bay?”

  He shrugged it off. “Doesn’t mean anything. Just a silly name to attract tourists, that’s all.”

  “Sure, why not?” I grumbled. “Just in case the sharks and the hurricanes don’t scare them off, call the place Dead Man’s Bay. Makes sense to me. Solid business plan.”

  Joe rolled his eyes. I think I actually smiled. I can hardly describe what a sense of relief I felt, knowing that the worst of it was over. It was a bit like leaving the dentist’s office after a root canal or calling in for jury duty and finding out your presence is not required. For the first time in three hours, I felt like I could take a full breath. Everything was going to be okay.

  We slipped past the edge of the peninsula, and the bay opened up in front of us. The fog thinned a little and I saw twinkling lights up and down the hillside. I caught my breath. “Joe, it’s beautiful.”

  No sooner were the words out of my mouth than I heard a high-pitched buzzing sound behind us, like a swarm of angry hornets. I spun around to see a fishing boat plowing through the waves at high speed. “Joe, look out,” I said. “It’s headed straight for us.”

  Joe spun the wheel and gave out a blast on the horn. The pilot of the fishing vessel gave no indication that he’d seen us. Joe pressed a button on the control panel, priming the engine. I heard the quick thump-thump-thump of the fuel pump below deck. The old diesel turned over a few times, and slowly came to life. Joe shoved the throttle forward and pulled hard on the wheel. The Agatha started to come about.

  Waves rocked the boat as we turned to the side. The fishing boat continued on its straight-forward course aimed directly at us. Joe shouted something about letting out the sail, but by that time it was too late. The fishing boat flew by, just grazing the Agatha’s bow.

  As he sped past, the man inside the pilot house glared at me. I got a good look at him. He wore the hood of his yellow slicker pulled up over his head, but he had dark eyes, wrinkly, weathered skin, and a bushy gray beard. He looked just like one of the old fishermen you see in TV commercials. The name of the boat, printed on the transom, was Neptune.

  Joe shouted something at him as he flew by, and the old man responded with a one-finger salute. Joe let out a string of curses that would have made me blush if I hadn’t been thinking the exact same things. His face reddened, and his hands knotted into fists.

  As the gap between us widened, the wake of the fishing boat hit us broadside and I forgot all about the old man. The Agatha rocked violently. Icy waves splashed up over the hull. I gasped as the cold water hit my face, and then shrieked as a bathtub-full went streaming down the back of my poncho. In the process, I swallowed about half a gall
on of briny seawater. I bent over, choking, on the verge of getting sick. Joe was instantly at my side, patting me on the back.

  “You gonna be okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Just get me to a fire.”

  We could still hear the buzz of the fisherman’s engine echoing across the water, but he was lost in the fog. I glanced at Joe. His dark expression worried me.

  Joe pulled in the foresail, and I helped with the mainsail. While I tied everything down, Joe returned to the console. Finally, we resumed our slow trek across the harbor. The fog was so thick that we lost sight of everything but the lights on the hill. The lighthouse beacon was an ominous lightning-like flash that lit up the bay every few seconds. The lighthouse itself was no longer visible. I settled on the bench next to Joe, hugging myself to stay warm. He shot me a grim look.

  “What are you thinking?” I said between chattering teeth.

  “I’m thinking about what I’m going to do to that guy when I find him.”

  “I don’t want you starting any fights, Joe.”

  “I’m not starting one, I’m finishing it. Don’t worry, we’re a long way from civilization.”

  I felt a hollow sensation in my gut as he said that. The whole idea at the start of this thing had been to get away from civilization. Now that we were there, I wasn’t sure I wanted it anymore. I would have killed for a warm blanket by the fireplace in our living room. I was already wishing I’d never heard of the Lost Coast Inn.

  Joe had to maneuver the Agatha along the main dock, parallel to the shore. He didn’t have a lot of experience with the boat, and he took his time getting us into position so he wouldn’t damage the hull. As we pulled in, the layers of fog drifted around us. I could smell firewood smoke and fried food mingling with the scent of seaweed and saltwater. Golden light and quiet music streamed out of the inn, the noise drifting hauntingly down the hillside towards us. Off to the left and slightly up the hill, I caught a glimpse of the tennis courts, and a few lights twinkling through the trees.