Murder on the Lost Coast (He said, She said Mystery Series Book 2)
Page 3
I didn’t even get to finish the sentence because there was a burst of light outside the inn, just beyond the balcony, accompanied by a loud ka-boom! The sound rattled the wineglasses and shook the windows. A ball of flames went roaring into the sky. I nearly fell over as I jumped off my stool. I kicked my cane over and hurried over to the windows. I shifted my weight to my good leg as I gazed out into the storm.
The problem seemed to be in a small outbuilding next to the tennis courts. I could see figures down there, moving around next to the flames, but the fog, the rain, and the smoke obscured my view. I spun around to find Dana, Jowls, Jacob, and the Jazzman all standing behind me. I pushed my way through them and hurried down the corridor to the lobby.
I grabbed a fire extinguisher on my way out. I wanted to run, but my leg was hurting and I knew what would happen if I tried to push my luck: my hip would twist right out of the socket. The pain would be so excruciating that I’d probably pass out. I had no choice but to restrain myself to a fast-paced hobble.
I lurched around the outside of the building and headed down the stairs. The wind was howling, driving the icy rain into my face like tiny shards of glass. I saw Charlotte halfway down the hill, standing there with no coat or hood. She was arguing with a tall, thinly built man who had taken his shirt off to slap out the flames. His efforts were largely ineffective, partially because he was more focused on maintaining his end of the argument than on putting out the fire.
My eyes widened as I approached them. What I’d thought was a burning shed was actually the shelter for the inn’s propane tank. It was a big one, one of the massive thousand-gallon behemoths they keep at the propane store to fill up ordinary sized tanks. That was the source of the fire. When I saw the flames licking around the top of the cylinder, the smoke pouring out from under the roof, the hairs rose on the back of my neck. The noise of the fire was accompanied by an unmistakable hissing sound.
“Get back!” I shouted, fiddling with the fire extinguisher handle. I yanked out the pin, took aim at what appeared to be the center of the fire, and squeezed the handle. The chemical expellant rushed out in a billowing funnel. Clouds of white blinded my view. I stepped back, blinking, trying not to inhale the vapor as the wind blew it in my face.
The cloud dissipated and I stepped closer, trying to get a better look at what had happened. The flames had mostly vanished, but the hissing sound persisted. I dropped to my knees, trying to locate the source of the leak. I moved fast, trying not to think about what would happen if the propane tank exploded. There wouldn’t be enough left of me to use as shark bait.
I realized one of the hoses leading from the propane tank to the pressure regulator had burned through. It was still on fire, and fuel was gushing out of the broken hose like a blowtorch. It danced and shimmied across the concrete surface under the container. I clenched my teeth. The fire at the end of that hose was hot enough that if it hit the tank, I might find myself in the center of a catastrophic explosion that would not only be the end of me, but most of the inn, and a good chunk of the hillside.
“It’s still burning!” Charlotte’s companion shouted. I bit back the sarcastic comment that was on the tip of my tongue. I hit the flames with another blast, but the fire extinguisher had no effect whatsoever. I couldn’t even target that hose the way it was bouncing around. I glanced over my shoulder at Charlotte and saw her standing frozen, staring at me with wide eyes. Her male companion was hightailing it up the stairs towards the inn.
“Get back,” I said to her.
I tossed the extinguisher aside and dropped to my knees. I reached under the tank, slapping at the dancing hose until I finally got a grip on it. The rubbery material was hot -close to melting- and it burned into my flesh and conformed to the shaped of my palm as I squeezed it. I put enough pressure on it to slow down the flames, but couldn’t entirely snuff it out.
With my free hand, I dug into my pocket and produced my assisted-opening SOG pocket knife. With a flick of my thumb, the blade flew open. It locked into place with a loud, comforting click, and with one quick slice, I removed the end of the hose. The section of burning rubber fell to the ground, and I batted it aside, away from the tank. With the flames safely out of reach, I doubled the end of the hose over, cutting off most of the gas flow. The hissing died down to almost nothing.
Charlotte came to my side as I was getting back on my feet. Her eyes were wide, her wet hair plastered to her forehead. She looked white as a ghost. “Is it over?”
“Hold this for a second,” I said, handing her the hose. I circled the tank, looking for the main cutoff valve. The tank was so tight against the back wall of the shelter that I could barely slide my arm in to shut it off. I had to get down on my knees and stretch all the way up to my shoulder. As the tips of my fingertips grazed the valve, I heard my sleeve tearing.
I grunted, forcing my arm deeper into the crevice. I pinched the handle between my index and middle fingers. I pulled, but only managed to move it a quarter turn. I tried again, and this time made it halfway there. Fortunately, the rotation of the handle brought it within easy reach. I closed my fist around it, and forced the lever the rest of the way down.
The hose went slack. I yanked my arm out of the narrow space and winced as my sleeve ripped open from the elbow to the cuff. It was ruined. I could already hear Tanja’s voice in my head, chastising me:
“Why didn’t you change into an old shirt first? You’re always so careless!”
I’ve heard it a thousand times. Every time I change the oil in the Suburban or repair something around the house, or spend a few hours working on my boat, I ruin a shirt. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I try to remember to change first, or to put on some coveralls, but when I see something that needs doing, I zero in on it. I go right to work. I can’t seem to remember anything else. At least this time, I had a good excuse. To my mind, keeping that tank from exploding was well worth the cost of a shirt.
I ripped off what little was left of my sleeve and then opened my palm to examine the damage. My skin was bright red, dotted in places with bits of melted rubber. I had a few small blisters. Fortunately, the adrenaline was still pumping, so I didn’t feel much pain.
I came around to the front of the tank and found Charlotte waiting for me. She threw her arms around me in an appreciative embrace, thanking me profusely. She pulled away and gasped as she saw my blistered palm.
“I’m fine,” I reassured her. “I just need to wrap it. How did this fire get started?”
Charlotte’s eyes narrowed. She turned, raising her gaze to her tall friend up on the patio. “He happened,” she said with a little snarl. She raised her voice: “Gerard, what were you thinking?”
“You shut my gas off!” he said. “I was just trying to turn it back on.”
“You nearly blew us all up, you imbecile!”
“It’s not my fault. You had no right, Charlotte. No right at all!”
“You haven’t paid your share of the bill in months, Gerard. I should have evicted you ages ago.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Gerard said. He turned, making a sweeping gesture at the others. “Now you see. You see how she can’t be trusted.” He pointed a finger at Jowls. “Let this be a lesson to you. She’ll say whatever you want to hear, but you never know what’s going on inside her devious little brain! She’ll screw you, just like she did to me. If you were smart, you’d tear up that contract and run as fast as you can.”
With that, he pushed through the crowd and came hurrying down the stairs. He stopped a few yards away to glare at Charlotte. “You better get my propane fixed, or this fire will be the least of your problems.”
With that, he scrambled up the Jeep trail and disappeared into the woods. I touched Charlotte’s shoulder, and she flinched.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m sorry. He just turns me into a nervous wreck, that’s all.”
“Who was that jerk?”
“My ex-husband. The worst mistake I ev
er made. We split up three years ago, but he still lives here.”
“In the inn?”
“No, there’s a cabin up the hill. It used to be our home.” She wiped a tear from her eye and crossed her arms over her chest. I realized she was shivering.
“You’d better get inside,” I said. “You’re going to catch pneumonia out here. I can get this fixed in a jiffy. There must be some extra hose around here somewhere.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “You’re a guest. Miguel will patch the propane lines. Get inside and get that hand wrapped. I’ll send Dana up to your room with some ointment and a first aid kit.” With that, she turned and went hurrying back up the stairs to the inn.
As the crowd on the patio began to disperse, I glanced up and saw Tanja staring down at me from the balcony. Her hair was dripping wet, and she was wearing a bathrobe. She gave me a questioning look, and I shrugged. She went back inside. I started the painful climb back up the stairs.
On my way through the lobby, I glanced into the dining room and saw that the bar was empty. Jacob was gone. It was probably for the best.
Chapter 5
Tanja
Our anniversary vacation was off to a fantastic start. I could hardly wait to see what would happen next.
That’s sarcasm, in case you didn’t catch it. I had half a mind to spend the rest of the weekend locked in our suite. Or better yet, to turn around and go right back home. Unfortunately, it was too late for that. It wouldn’t have been safe to take the boat out at night, especially with the hurricane-strength tropical storm brewing out there. The Jeep trail through the mountains was almost certainly flooded, so the only way out of there was on foot, and if my memory of the area was correct, that meant a hike of nearly twenty miles over storm-drenched mountains or more than thirty miles up the beach. Not that you could really call it a beach. The hike would involve climbing over cliffs and rocks, circling around inlets and coves, and fording dozens of runoff streams.
I know, I know. That’s the allure of the Lost Coast. It’s the isolation, the unpredictable power and beauty of untamed nature. That’s why people go there in the first place. Maybe, but I would hasten to add that it was Joe’s idea, not mine. I found it a little unsettling how quickly that allure had turned into a trap. Essentially, we were all stuck there until the storm cleared. What would happen if there was an emergency? What if someone had an accident, or -God forbid- Joe’s hip came out of the socket? I didn’t have the slightest idea how to deal with something like that, and there certainly wasn’t anything in the first aid kit that would be any help. The close call we’d just had with the propane tank was enough to get me thinking about all the things that could go wrong, and the more I thought about it, the more I wished we had gone anywhere else for our anniversary.
I tried to push those thoughts aside as I dressed for dinner. The storm, the near-collision, the propane incident… these weren’t omens or anything like that. They were just the universe’s way of clearing out the cobwebs. Now that the weirdness was out of the way, the rest of our stay was going to be wonderful… I wasn’t convinced, but I had to tell myself something to get through it.
I slipped into my black dress, did up my makeup and hair, and headed for the dining room. I arrived late, of course. By the time I got there, the rest of the guests were already seated. I settled down across from Joe, and he introduced me to George and Nancy Lincoln, a couple of retirees from Ohio who were seated at the next table. To my right was Blake Randall, known to my husband as Jowls, and Angus Smith, who Joe jokingly referred to as the Jazzman.
As we were making introductions, the chef wheeled out several stainless platters on carts with Dana’s assistance. He was a short and thinly built man, with sharp, angular features, dark hair, and a large belly that was at odds with his small stature and his ill-fitting chef’s coat. His name was Paul Melville, and if the reviews about his cooking were true, I couldn’t blame him for the belly.
Despite his diminutive size, the guy was a seething ball of rage. He glared at us as he came out, he glared at Dana and slapped her hand when she went to remove the tray lids and he wasn’t ready yet, and then he glared at Charlotte while he waited for her permission to serve dinner. This was new to me. My experience with buffets were the sort where everyone stands in line with an empty plate. Tonight, it seemed Chef Melville would be serving us personally. This, Joe explained later in an authoritative tone, is how the “fancy places” do it. Whatever. Joe’s idea of fancy usually involves a barbecue, so I take everything he says with a grain of salt.
Charlotte -now dried off and wearing a fresh sweater- had been flitting in and out of the room like a butterfly, doing her best to make sure everything was in its place. As things finally settled down, she went to the front of the room, and standing before the piano, said, “What do we have tonight, Chef?”
Chef Melville removed the tray covers, releasing waves of steam into the air. He handed them to Dana as he described the dishes:
“Eggplant parmesan, thinly sliced and layered with fresh hand-made mozzarella, seasoned with locally-sourced organic garlic and herbs, served with a tasty marinara made from organic, locally sourced garlic, tomatoes, and…”
And on, and on…
After a solid five minutes of describing the eggplant parmesan, during which I don’t think he paused for a single breath (I didn’t realize humans could go that long without air, much less that eggplant was such a complicated dish), he went on to introduce the other dishes, of which there were plenty: linguini in red clam sauce, baked salmon, handmade four-cheese ravioli, and crab cakes with lime sauce. After his rather lengthy explanations, the chef and his assistant began filling our plates, asking each guest individually for their dinner preference. This process took another fifteen minutes or so.
At last, with our plates and wine-glasses full, it was time to eat. As I reached for a fork, Charlotte tapped a butter knife against the rim of her wine glass to get our attention. The entire room seemed to sigh. I wasn’t the only one getting really hungry.
“I would like to make an announcement, if you don’t mind,” she said. “As some of you are aware, this is our last week of the season. It is our long-standing tradition to close the inn in October, and reopen in April. This year is different: we’re about to make some big changes. When the Lost Coast Inn reopens, I will no longer be the owner. I’m happy to announce that I’ve accepted an offer for the retreat.”
There was a crash as one of the stainless platter lids fell to the floor at Dana’s feet. She was staring at Charlotte with her jaw hanging open. When she realized we were looking at her, Dana snapped her mouth shut, snatched up the lid, and headed for the kitchen. Chef Melville cleared his throat and hurried after her. After a brief but uncomfortable silence, Nancy Lincoln made an effort to relieve the tension:
“How exciting,” she said. “Does this mean you will be retiring?”
Charlotte managed a smile. “Yes, but I must admit it will be hard to leave this place. After so many years of struggling to make it my own, I will be sad to let it go… But I believe it’s for the best. I assure you, the place will be in good hands.”
“Oh?”
“The new owner has… resources,” Charlotte explained. “He will be able to invest in major improvements. In fact, I understand there will be an airstrip.”
“Fascinating,” said George. “And who, if I may ask, is this wealthy entrepreneur?”
Charlotte hesitated. Blake Randall -Jowls- cleared his throat. “I am,” he said.
We all stared at him. Nancy’s eyes lit up at this new revelation. “This must be very exciting for you. Tell me, will that strange fellow be staying here? The one who started the fire?”
“Gerard?” Blake said. “Of course not. Whatever arrangements he may have had with Charlotte-” he paused as if realizing he’d spoken too much. “-are none of my business.”
“What about the employees?” Angus said to Charlotte. “Will they stay on?”
All eyes turned to Blake. He deliberately took a long sip of wine as he considered his answer. He leaned back in his chair and said, “I honestly can’t say. I’ll have to raise the question at the next investor meeting.”
“That sounds like ‘no’ to me,” Angus said with mischievous grin.
“Take it however you like,” Blake said. “I won’t make any commitments until my investors have had their say.”
Angus leaned back in his chair, still staring at Blake as the businessman took another sip of wine. “Who are these investors, exactly?”
“I’m not at liberty to say,” said Blake. “And frankly, it’s none of your business.”
“Oh, but it is! You see, I work here, too!”
Blake rolled his eyes. “I don’t consider banging on that noise-box over there working. Besides, you’re not an actual employee. Stay out of it.”
“I get tips!”
“Only from tourists drunker than you are, if such a thing is possible.”
“Sir, I object!”
“Enough!” Charlotte said in a loud voice. “Angus, I know you’re just having fun, and I love you dearly, but could you please for just one moment consider the feelings of the rest of us?” She had been using a napkin to dab her eyes, and with that, she threw it down on her plate and stormed out of the room.
For a few seconds, we all stared at each other in silence. Then I heard the clink of a fork on porcelain, and swung my head around to see my husband shoveling food into his mouth. “Joe!” I said in dismay.
“What?” he said, shrugging his broad shoulders. “I’m hungry.”
“Me, too,” said George. “Nancy, pass the salt.”
And this was the manner in which my completely tactless husband broke the tension and got everyone eating. I must admit that although I was a little embarrassed at first, I was secretly glad he had done it. The rest of us might have sat there starving for another half an hour.