“Left on Main,” Charlene said.
I turned at the stop sign. A police cruiser sat outside Pie Town’s brick facade. A CLOSED sign hung in the dusty window of the comic shop. We puttered past antique shops and coffee houses. At the old firehouse, Main Street curved toward the beach, intersecting Highway 1. Eucalyptus trees lined the highway. Wind from passing cars rustled California poppies, flaming amid tall, green grasses.
“Turn left here.” Charlene pointed with another pizza slice, and my stomach rumbled a protest.
I reached for the box.
She slid it out of my reach. “You have no idea how many accidents are caused by eating and driving.”
Neither did Charlene. Pressing my lips together, I turned up the road, wending through low, emerald hills. “That was my pizza.”
“It’s delicious, thank you. Turn right here.”
“Where?” I squinted, slowing the VW.
“Here! Here!”
A shaded road cut between two eucalyptus trees, and I turned sharply, bumping onto rough macadam. We drove up a steep hillside, the road snaking, narrow. Charlene directed me onto an open space overlooking the ocean and a blue, metal cargo container.
I stopped the car. “Where is it?”
“You’re looking at it.”
I looked around. Grass, some trees, the container, and a view of the ocean, a bank of fog hovering off the gray line of coast. “Where?”
“There.” She stabbed a crooked finger at the container.
“A shipping container? I’d rather live in my office.”
“You’ve been living in that office for the last five months.”
“Four months.”
“And it’s a little sad if you ask me.” Unbuckling her seat belt, she lurched from the VW. “Come on.”
Exhaling slowly, I followed. With Pie Town closed, I didn’t have anything better to do, and the view was spectacular. The faint tang of salt air and local herbs and grasses tickled my nostrils.
I walked around the container and stopped short. The side facing the ocean was nearly all windows. A crisp white awning jutted out above the glass doors, sheltering a picnic bench.
Charlene climbed the two steps to the entrance, unlocked and opened the container.
Wordless, I followed her inside. The polished wood floors glowed. The walls were a soft white. A kitchenette with a surprising amount of counter space anchored the center of the room. A square dining nook stood off to one side of the kitchen. At the other end of the container, a bookshelf blocked off a sleeping area with a pull-out futon arrangement. A desk folded out of another wall.
Charlene stomped to the opposite side of the container, past the bookshelf. “Bathroom’s over here.”
I blinked, slow, disbelieving, feeling like I’d stepped inside Doctor Who’s TARDIS. The container looked a lot bigger on the inside than the outside. But there was a real bathroom, with a separate toilet and shower area. And that view . . . I gazed out the window. I could watch the ocean all day, the lines of foaming waves, the creeping fog.
I swallowed, mouth dry. I had to play this cool. “It is small.”
“All my other properties are rented, and you couldn’t afford them anyway.”
Other properties? Had I employed a real estate mogul? Charlene hadn’t mentioned that on her job application. But you couldn’t put much faith in job applications. On hers, she’d listed her age as forty-two. “How much are you asking?”
She stopped in front of a gilt mirror, fussing with her white hair. “I told you, I couldn’t possibly rent this ocean view gem to a single soul when one of my oldest friends has been murdered, and the police think I might have been responsible.”
Resigned to the coming blackmail, I bit my bottom lip. “What do you want?”
“Well . . . I might see clear to renting it to you, if you were the right sort of person.”
“What sort of person, exactly?”
“The sort who’d help me find Joe’s killer.”
Chapter 3
Yawning, I curled up on the lumpy motel bed, remote control in hand. The local news flickered on the TV screen, tinting the room blue. Moonlight streamed through a gap in the grayish curtains, puddling on the carpet.
I’d rather step on a rusty screw than assist my free-wheeling piecrust maker with a murder investigation. But of course I said yes. After all, poor Joe had died of natural causes. And Charlene knew quite well she wasn’t a murder suspect. She just reveled in the excitement. Since her name wasn’t under attack and no murderer was at large, it would be easy enough to solve the case. It was win-win.
So my conscience was clear. I’d get a new home, the police would figure out what happened to Joe, and I’d made Charlene happy. My motto was to be kind whenever possible, and it was always possible. That’s actually from the Dalai Lama, but I didn’t think he’d mind if I adopted it.
Someone pounded on the motel room door.
Muttering a curse, I dragged myself off the bed and peered out the peephole. A veined, blue eyeball stared back.
“Gagh!” Clutching my chest, I willed my heart to stop pounding. “Who is it?”
“It’s Charlene. Let’s go.”
I wrenched open the door. “What?”
Charlene stood on the balcony and glared up at me. “Aren’t you ready?” She adjusted the black knit cap over her silvery curls. It glittered with moisture from the nighttime fog.
“What’s going on?” I asked. The yellowish overhead light flickered, and I shivered.
“You promised to help me investigate.”
My brows drew together. This was more than I’d bargained for. Charlene seemed in pretty good shape, but I didn’t care for the idea of her crime fighting on her own. She might get arrested or have a stroke. I took in her slim-fitting black track suit, hip-length black knit jacket, and black running shoes. The cat wrapped around her neck seemed to gleam, its white fur shimmering. “You look like a geriatric bank robber.”
Her spectacles flashed in the lamplight. “Geriatric! I’m in my prime.”
Prime number, possibly. She was seventy-something if a day. “All right.” I stepped further into the room, but she stayed outside.
“We’re going to find out who killed Joe. Come on.”
“Charlene—”
“Don’t you want to stop sleeping in Pie Town?”
“Yes, but—”
“You’re not going to make me do this alone, are you? I might break a hip.”
“I thought you were in your prime.”
“I have weak bones!”
“Drink more milk.” Grabbing my purse and navy jacket off the rumpled bed, I followed her down the steps to an ancient, yellow Jeep.
“Get in.” Hopping into the driver’s seat, she leaned across, unlocking the door.
I had one leg in when the Jeep lurched forward.
“Whoa!” Clutching the grab bar, I swung the rest of myself inside and slammed the door shut. I sputtered.
“What did you say?” she asked.
I took deep breaths, willing my heart to remain in its proper anatomical place. “Where are we going?”
“Joe’s house.”
“We’re not breaking in.” I buckled up, my knuckles white.
“Of course not. I have a key.”
The Jeep roared around a corner, speeding past a gas station.
“Where did you get a key?” I asked. “I thought you said you were his long, long ago ex-girlfriend.”
“Well, yes, but I kept the key. When you’re older, you have to watch out for each other in case you trip on the stairs and can’t get up. Joe and I knew that if one of us suddenly disappeared, we’d have to check on each other.” She chuckled. “Boy was he pissed when I forgot to tell him about my trip to Vegas.”
We sped down Main Street, its faux-gas lanterns turning the fog amber. A trio of teenage boys shambled down the sidewalk, their collars turned up, their hair ragged.
Charlene tsked. “I’ll bet they’
re on their way to the cemetery. There’s not much else to do in San Nicholas when you’re that age.”
She turned at a red double-decker bus parked outside a pub and piloted us down a residential street. Slowing, Charlene pulled up beside a white Victorian.
“Is this Joe’s house?” I asked.
She arched a brow. “I’m not going to park right in front of his house. Don’t you watch any crime TV? Joe lives a block away.” Sliding out of the Jeep, she lifted the cat off her neck and set it on her seat. It rolled onto its back, pawing at the air in invitation. Chuckling, she rubbed its belly.
Clambering out, I shut the door as quietly as I could, and grimaced. How had I fallen in with Charlene’s cop and robbers fantasies?
“We’ll walk.” She backhanded me lightly in the gut. “Now act casual!”
“I am acting casual,” I whispered. “Keep your voice down.”
“Oh. Right. His house is this way.”
The fog slithered beneath my collar, dampening my skin and hair. We passed beneath a misshapen Monterey pine, and I zipped my jacket higher. Streetlamps were few and far between here, and most of the homes were dark. I stumbled over a slab of broken sidewalk and widened my eyes, straining to see.
“Careful.” Charlene crossed the street.
I paused in front of a yellow one-story with a gabled roof. A FOR SALE sign sporting my ex-fiancé’s leering face sprouted from its lawn. My heart pinched.
Shuddering, I hurried down the block after my piecrust maker. She turned through a gate and strode up the brick walk of a Victorian painted garish purple and orange. The fog seemed to condense around it, covering its shame. Our footsteps clunked, hollow, on the porch.
Charlene jingled a set of keys. “No cops outside the vic’s house. They’re not taking Joe’s death seriously. I knew we had to solve this crime ourselves.”
“We are so going to get arrested.” And I’d been looking forward to my lumpy hotel bed and grody shower.
“Nonsense. We’re here to collect Joe’s cat, Mr. Tibbles.”
“Joe has a cat?” I sagged, relieved. That was a decent reason to go inside. I might not spend the night in jail after all.
“No, but we don’t have to tell them that. If the cops show up, we’ll say Mr. Tibbles ran away.”
“Which they’ll see through as soon as they notice Joe didn’t keep any cat food.”
Nose twitching, she shoved the door open. “Please. Do you think that dunderhead detective, Shaw, is going to notice?”
I scuttled after her and shut the door, enveloping us in darkness.
Charlene clicked a flashlight on and shone it in my eyes.
I flinched away. “Aim that somewhere else.”
“Oh, right.” She directed the beam at the red-carpeted floor and thrust something cold and metallic into my hands. “I figured you’d forget to bring one.”
“Forget? I didn’t even know we were breaking and entering until about fifteen minutes ago.”
“We’re not breaking, only entering. Now start looking for Joe’s casebook.”
I turned on the flashlight and aimed it at the carpet. “Casebook? Was he a private investigator on the side?”
“He and his buddy, Frank Potts, were Sherlock Holmes nuts before Frank died last month. Real obsessive. They called themselves the Baker Street Boys.”
“So?”
“Baker Street Bonkers was more like it. They armchair investigated local crimes. That must be why Joe was murdered. He got too close to the truth.”
I tucked a loose hank of hair behind my ear. “What local crimes? This is San Nicholas. No one does anything here.”
“The worst crimes happen in rural areas. That’s what Sherlock Holmes says.”
“Sherlock Holmes doesn’t exist.” Unwilling to leave the security of a quick exit, I wavered in the entryway.
“I know he’s fictional. But Holmes was right. There’s more going on in San Nicholas than you’d think. You’d be aware of that if you spent a little more time out of that pie shop.”
I clutched the flashlight to my chest. “Start-ups take a lot of energy.”
She harrumphed and walked down the hall. “You search the front of the house. I’ll take the back, and then we’ll both check upstairs. Give a shout if the cops turn up.”
“I can’t believe I’m doing this.” But I couldn’t retreat now and leave Charlene in the house alone. Seventy-something might be the new fifty-something, but she was seventy-something going on seventeen.
Worried about attracting attention, I aimed the light at the floor and edged into a living room. The decor was Victorian—oil lamps and fringed table runners and heavy, curved furniture made of dark wood. It smelled of pipe smoke and liniment. I picked up a tattered sci-fi paperback, put it down. A floorboard creaked beneath my weight.
I crept through a wide, arched entry into an old-fashioned library. Bookcases ran to the ceiling, covering the walls. On the far side stood a cold fireplace. A local map of the California coast, stuck with pushpins, hung above it. Green and red and yellow pins clustered around San Nicholas. It looked cluelike, which I figured would make Charlene happy, so I snapped a picture with my cell phone.
I wandered to a heavy, wooden desk. A leather-bound journal lay atop it, and I picked it up, opened the cover. Irregular Casebook No. 13.
Eureka! “Charlene! I think I found it.”
She appeared in the entry. “Weird. The kitchen door was open, but it doesn’t look like anything was disturbed.”
“Maybe his cat got out that way.”
“There is no cat.”
“I might have found the book.” Thumbing through it, I made a face. Only the first four pages had brief scrawls on them. Library bd.—sec—the Case of the Bloated Blond.
“You did?” Charlene nudged me from behind. “What does it say?”
“It says it’s a casebook, but there’s nothing much inside.”
She grabbed the book and set it on an end table, shining the flashlight beam on its pages. “His latest casebook. Frank must have died before their next meeting, and Joe hadn’t had a chance to finish the cases without him.”
A throat cleared behind me.
We turned.
A black-clad figure in a ski mask stared past us. We followed his gaze to the end table.
The casebook.
I dove for it.
The burglar rushed forward, knocking me and the table to the ground. A lamp crashed. The casebook flew beneath an ornate couch.
Red and blue lights illuminated the bookshelves, the armchairs, Charlene’s face.
My heart seized. Handcuffs. Jail. Officer Carmichael. What had I done?
Charlene shrieked. “Cheese it! It’s the cops!”
The burglar scrambled to his feet, stepping on my hand. He raced from the room.
Charlene grabbed my arm, tugging. “Come on!” She toddled out of the room.
“Wait!” Blood pounding, I stumbled after her and banged my knee into a low end table. Something smashed to the floor.
Limping, I followed the wandering beam of her flashlight through a narrow hallway and into an ancient kitchen.
Charlene flipped off her light and darted through the open door.
Swearing beneath my breath, I followed her down the steps and into the backyard. The soggy ground sucked at my shoes.
“Turn off your flashlight,” she whispered. “Or do you want the cops to catch us? This way!”
Frantic, I hobbled to the end of a yard, and we passed through a low gate. A flashlight beam swept the lawn, and I ducked behind the redwood fence. Through the fog, the moon was a bright, cotton fluff, illuminating twisting eucalyptus trees and a path leading behind the houses. Water splashed nearby.
I moved toward the path.
Charlene gripped my arm. “The burglar went that way. We’re going the other.” She drew me, stumbling over roots and branches, through the trees and to a shallow stream. Charlene splashed into the water.
” W
ait,” I said. “We shouldn’t be running. We need to tell the police about the burglar.” I stepped in after her. The water froze my feet, coiled about my ankles.
“We are the burglars!” She headed north, making her way down the creek.
“But the police need to know. It might have something to do with Joe’s murder.”
“Do you think they haven’t figured out by now that someone was in Joe’s house?”
She had a point. “Where are we going?” I asked.
“We’re circling back to the car. The stream will throw off our scent.”
I stopped, calf deep in the frigid water. “Throw off our scent? They’re not sending dogs after us.”
“They won’t need to the way you’re shouting.”
“I am not shouting.” I’d been whispering loudly. The phone rang in my pocket, and I jumped, slipped on a stone, righted myself.
“You didn’t turn off your phone? What sort of a crime fighter are you?”
“The not-a-crime-fighter kind.” Wrenching the phone from my jacket pocket, I checked the number.
“Turn it off!”
I answered. “Hello?”
“Valentine Harris?” a man asked. His baritone rumbled through me, sending my heartbeat into a spiral.
“Um, yes?”
“This is Officer Carmichael, from the San Nicholas PD.”
Gagh! The police knew where I was.
“I’m calling to tell you that you can open your restaurant tomorrow.”
“Oh.” I started breathing again. “Oh. Thank you. Did you—I mean, does that mean it was a natural death?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t say more than that. But you’re open for business tomorrow morning.”
“Thanks. I appreciate the call.” This was bonkers. I had to tell him the truth. “Officer—”
“Miss H—”
Charlene snatched the phone from me and clicked it off. “Are you crazy? The police are on our tail.”
“No, they’re not. That was the police, Officer Carmichael.”
“What did he say?”
“We can open Pie Town tomorrow, which means there was nothing wrong with that quiche, and you are not a suspect. Mystery solved.”
“Mystery solved my Aunt Fannie. Someone killed Joe, and that person probably broke into his house.” She sloshed downstream.
The Quiche and the Dead Page 3
