Cranberry Bluff

by Deborah Garner

  Dan was stretched out on the bed in the Cottage Suite, flipping through a local travel magazine when Susie walked in. “All ads,” he criticized. “I don’t know why travelers even bother to read these things.”

  He tossed the magazine aside. “So, how did you do today? A decent haul?”

  “Not great.” Susie tossed her bags on the sofa in the sitting area. “Some pearl earrings, a lace camisole, a rhinestone bracelet and a scarf from the local artist co-op. And a sweater that I actually paid for. I like the scarf.”

  “Sorry, dear. Not the cream of the crop selection you’re used to.” He patted the bed, inviting her to join him. “Maybe you need a new hobby.”

  “Don’t start that ‘dear’ crap or get any ideas,” Susie snapped. “It’s bad enough I have to be affectionate to you inside the inn. Don’t push it.”

  “All part of the job, sweetheart.”

  “You heard me. Zip it.” Susie pulled the pearl earrings from her jacket pocket and tossed them on the table in front of the sofa. She dug the bracelet from the other pocket and the scarf from her oversized tote.

  “There’s a light out along the garden pathway,” Dan said.

  “Who cares?” Susie’s tone was disgusted. “It’s not like this is the Four Seasons.” She reached into a shopping bag and pulled out other items.

  “Ooh, let me see the camisole,” Dan said.

  “I told you, zip it.” Susie dropped her jacket on the sofa and headed to the bathroom, closing the door. She took off her baggy sweater, pulled the camisole off her slender torso and folded it neatly.

  “This town is beyond boring,” she shouted through the door. “Even the stores are a drag. I miss Miami and New York and Chicago and Boston.”

  “Tough luck, honey,” Dan said. “You’re stuck here for the time being.”

  Susie threw the bathroom door open and glared at Dan.

  “Listen, you low life. In the first place, I’m not your honey, sweetheart or dear. So lay off that crap when we’re not in public. And second of all, if you hadn’t decided to go after the reward money, I wouldn’t be trapped in a tiny diorama of a town.”

  “Come on, it’s not that bad, especially when we’re going to split the reward.”

  “It’s exactly that bad, and worse.”

  Susie’s patience with Dan was growing thin. There were many other detectives out there who would have made more interesting fake husbands. Ralph, for example, was bright enough to add character to his roles. Or Jonathan, boring but loaded with cash. He never passed up fine dining and plentiful cocktails, and always footed the tab. Even better, Gregory, or whatever his real name was. Now there was a bonus partner – great conversationalist, great looking and one hell of a kisser. She’d pushed for more romance every time she’d been on assignment with him. But he’d always held back. He was a smart agent who didn’t mix work with pleasure. That was a man she’d like to conquer in the future. Maybe she’d try to get hooked up with him again. She’d put in a request with the agencies he worked with.

  She certainly wasn’t about to go out on the road with Dan again, if she could help it. This time it had been convenient; she had an agenda of her own. But she was a free agent. She could do what she wanted. And spending time with Dan wasn’t in her plans.

  “I don’t have to work with you, you know,” she said. “There are plenty of detective agencies that offer me jobs. I’ve solved more cases than you’ll see in your lifetime.”

  “That’s because you’re so cute you can talk your way into anywhere just by batting your eyes.”

  “Shut up. Though you’re right, I have to admit.”

  “Of course I’m right.” Dan picked up another magazine and flipped a few pages.

  Susie pulled a pack of cigarettes from her suitcase and stuffed them into her jacket pocket, pulling the jacket back on. “I’m taking a walk. Who knows how far I’ll have to go before I can have a stupid cigarette in peace.”

  “Out of character, you mean,” Dan added. “You really hate these jobs where you have to act civilized, don’t you?”

  “Whatever.” The front door of the suite slammed as she left.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Sadie dropped her bags on the bed in her room and shook her arms. It was tiring, doing this much shopping. But how could she resist? Every town offered something different and Cranberry Cove always provided a blast of a buying spree. She wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity to improve her wardrobe. Besides, the more clothing the better, she always figured. It let her change her looks anytime she liked. Not that she often changed them. She was proud of the way her personality could fit into a variety of jobs without disguises. So many detectives reveled in changing their physical appearance with each assignment. They were amateurs.

  Her own San Francisco boutique, Flair, reflected her true personality, not to mention it was the perfect front for her other business. She loved clothing and accessories, so she wasn’t playing a role on the days she worked the counter. Her sales girls were equally enthusiastic, which was a good thing. It kept them busy in front when she needed to focus on assignments in her securely dead-bolted office behind the store.

  She picked up the red sweater she’d purchased, admiring the ruffle around the neck. “Widow’s wealth,” she’d told that sweet little twenty-something. That was an understatement. The bank accounts, stock certificates and real estate holdings that Morris Kramer, her third husband, had left her when he kicked the bucket would last her for a good decade.

  Maybe she should consider taking some jobs in Paris or Rome. She could certainly afford to. Well, there was that pesky language problem. She shouldn’t have cut class for those courses when she was younger. But how was she to know she could use those languages to her advantage later on? Typical student, she’d never bought into that philosophy. Twenty-twenty hindsight, as they say. Now she knew better. Everything came in handy at some point.

  She grabbed the purple skirt. Red Hat Society, right! That little Susie hadn’t even known what that was. She could have spit out any excuse to mix those colors and it wouldn’t have mattered. The truth was, that skirt was a great match for a lavender beaded blouse she’d picked up on a recent assignment in Seattle. She could dress it up with shiny black boots. That outfit would be perfect for an occasion when she rinsed out the red dye and sported a salt and pepper look.

  She rummaged through the rest of her purchases – metallic gold slippers; every gal needed a pair of those! The turquoise and coral poncho she’d found at the co-op would be exquisite with the jewelry she’d bought in Santa Fe. Just as the fringed leather jacket would complement the boots she’d brought back from Montana. But especially enticing was the black satin lingerie set, slinky nightgown and matching robe. As much as she missed Morris, there was no harm in keeping an open mind toward the future.

  Carefully, she replaced the purchases in their bags, lining them up on the cushions in the little bay window. Pulling out her knitting needles and a vibrant, purple skein of mohair yarn, she settled in beside them with her thoughts. The sitting area was a nice touch in an otherwise basic room. Not that there was anything wrong with the room. It just wasn’t her particular cup of Scotch. The blue and white décor struck her as dull. Still, it fit the nature of a bed and breakfast.

  One of the perks of her trade was getting to travel. She knew she’d be bored if she stayed in one place too long, though San Francisco felt as close to home as anywhere. She might have moved there on her own even if Morris hadn’t had to be there for that luxury hotel project. There was a charm to San Francisco that spoke to her. She adored the majestic span of the Golden Gate Bridge, the smell of freshly baked sourdough bread at Fisherman’s Wharf and the exotic atmosphere of Chinatown. It had been a no-brainer to stay after Morris died.

  Other cities registered high on her favorites list, as well. Santa Fe had been a blast when she had tracked down a cheating husband for a woman in Albuquerque. She’d found a fabulous painting of chili peppers at one of
the many art galleries there. It fit in with the kitchen décor of her San Francisco penthouse perfectly. Of course, Santa Fe was worth a visit just for the food. How she loved the southwestern spices!

  Charleston was another favorite, though that had been a tougher assignment. Embezzlement was much harder to prove than infidelity. She was lucky to have friends in the banking industry – thank you, Morris! Those contacts were able to get inside information to her about suspicious deposits and transfers to overseas accounts. What was it she had purchased there? Ah, one of the sweet grass baskets at the market place, the largest one the craftswoman had for sale. It held the massive collection of mail order catalogs in her living room. She saw no reason to stop her shopping sprees just because she was home.

  That brought her back to this assignment, which was going to be even tougher. For one thing, she already liked Molly. That never helped. The cheating husband in Santa Fe had been an obnoxious jerk. Busting him had been rewarding. He deserved it. But Molly was genuinely likable, soft-spoken and sweet. It was hard to believe she could be involved in crime, but it wasn’t her job to judge. She’d tracked her down, which was half the job finished. Now she just had to keep her own emotions out of the mix, find the evidence and get out of Cranberry Cove. Without drawing attention to herself, of course, or she’d lose one of her favorite vacation and shopping locales.

  She’d hesitated to take on the assignment, truth be told. The idea of tracking a person others might also be tracking didn’t sit well. Binky had made it clear he’d discussed the case with other investigators, though he said he’d given her more details. That gave her an advantage but still, didn’t guarantee her a spot in the lead. She’d kept an eye on the rearview mirror while driving up to Cranberry Cove. More than once, she thought she was being followed. Each time the car behind her turned off the road. Paranoia, she told herself. It was part of the business.

  A second hesitation had been the nature of Binky’s story, which hadn’t rung completely true. Binky had seemed a little “off” when he said he was trying to help the police solve a robbery. It wasn’t like him to be on the right side of the law. He was a bizarre man, Al “Binky” Martelli. Of course, no one else called him Binky. It had started as a joke when they were first married. Although the marriage had ended, the nickname lived on. For decades they had kept up an occasional correspondence. She had agreed to take the case to help him.

  Now she was having second thoughts. Nothing that Binky had described about Molly matched what she’d seen since she’d arrived in Cranberry Cove. She’d expected a tough, worldly girl, maybe with harsher features and darker clothing. Binky had sent only a vague physical description based on security camera footage.

  On the other hand, the area of the assignment suited her. Binky was sure the northern coast of California was where the girl had headed, which is why he had contacted Sadie in the first place. She welcomed any excuse to drive up the coast. If someone wanted to pay her to do it, who was she to argue?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Mr. Miller set his briefcase on the bed and opened it, taking out his morning pills. He set each bottle in a neat row across the desk and opened the plastic seven-day container that he used to keep his prescriptions straight. There were so many of them, it was the only way he kept from being confused. Red pills, white pills, blue pills, striped pills. There was one for blood pressure, another to settle his stomach, another for a blood thinner and yet another for his diabetes. It was not a surprise that he’d gathered the physical maladies that he had. He’d always been sickly as a boy, missing school and normal childhood activities. His mother had put him to bed at the first sign of a sniffle or cough. Other children had teased him about being babied. But it was true that he was sick a lot.

  Counting out the pills with precision, he sorted them into the daily compartments. He reprimanded himself for not doing it before. He always prepared carefully for trips, with great attention to detail. But the situation had come out of the blue and required packing in a rush. How he hated rushing around. It broke up his disciplined lifestyle. That was not a good feeling, not good at all. Things needed to be in order, like the cabinets in his kitchen, like the meticulously sorted clothing in his closet. Chaos unsettled him. A doctor had suggested OCD. Maybe therapy would help? That made no sense to Mr. Miller. Out of order was simply out of order. It was not the natural way of life, in his opinion. Lack of organization was intolerable.

  He rarely got travel assignments from the insurance company he worked for. He knew they considered him odd and reclusive. They were right; he was odd and reclusive. They knew better than to send him out on most cases. Places like New York, Boston or Philadelphia made him nervous. Trashcans overflowed and window signs weren’t always straight. He was relieved they never asked him to go to those locations. There was nothing orderly about big cities. But a tiny town, a little inn that was neat and clean – this suited him. And the assignment couldn’t have been more serendipitous. He could hardly believe his luck when his supervisor handed him the case.

  Cranberry Cove was bearable, Mr. Miller thought as he dropped a blood pressure pill in each plastic square. He’d been quite pleased when he arrived. Molly hadn’t pushed him for conversation, and the room’s décor was exactly as he liked, right down to the fishing theme. Every picture hung straight and each trinket – there were not too many, thank heavens! – was dust-free and set apart. That was one of the worst things as far as he was concerned, seeing items lumped together. How people had such poor senses of spatial arrangements baffled him to no end. This was one reason he avoided shopping malls. Those window displays! Didn’t people know how to set items in straight or circular patterns? No one should be allowed to do displays without those perceptions.

  He finished filling his pillbox and snapped the lids of his prescription bottles shut. He replaced them in the briefcase, each one in an elastic-banded spot. Once the bottles were lined up and secured, he pulled out his notebook, opening it carefully to avoid wrinkles or smudges. Pristine paper was all he could tolerate. Even the slightest mark could make him hyperventilate.

  It was clear why the agency had assigned him the case. His observation skills were outstanding. The only directions he’d been given were to observe the innkeeper and take notes. He was instructed not to interact with her any more than necessary, which was fine with him. He didn’t care for conversation. Besides, keeping to himself would surely work to his advantage this time, considering his own agenda.

  He hadn’t written any notes the day before, after arriving at the inn. He’d merely observed. After all, that was his assignment. At night he rarely wrote notes since it interfered with his before bed ritual, which took two hours. One full hour of exercises. Twenty stretches over one toe, twenty stretches over the other. Then twenty knee bends with arms extended to the front, parallel to the ground, followed by twenty waist twists side-to-side, always starting to the right. He repeated the sequence twenty times, then set a timer for twenty minutes of meditation, during which he mentally lined up the items he’d seen that day. Birds, flower pots, red barns or telephone poles, it didn’t matter what the items were. He visualized them and set them in straight lines, in rows of twenty. After this first meditation, he brushed his teeth and said two of the prayers he’d learned as a boy. He repeated the routine, starting with the exercises, right down to a second tooth brushing and two more prayers. Then he slept.

  He looked over the blank page in the composition book and pulled his fountain pen from his pocket. Inscribing the words, “Day One Observations,” he proceeded to describe his first impressions of the innkeeper. She was approximately five foot five inches – how he hated this part, not being able to measure exactly – with brown hair and brown eyes. She was quiet and polite, not too pushy. What a relief that had been! She’d worn a solid, navy blue skirt and a red cardigan sweater with sixteen buttons down the front and one wayward thread hanging from the left seam. He paused and bit his lip, thinking of the dangling thread. He blink
ed his eyelids twenty times to force himself to refocus.

  He moved on to “Day Two Observations,” detailing the breakfast she had served. She’d worn tan slacks with no cuffs, a black T-shirt and print apron with coral seashells and a rickrack trim. She’d also worn sandals. He disapproved of that, seeing as it was a culinary setting. But his personal feelings were not part of objective observations, so he noted only the tan leather and silver buckle of each sandal. He paused and then added that the salt and pepper shakers on the table had been perfectly aligned. That is until that older woman had knocked a salt shaker over. He shuddered remembering the incident.

  He closed the notebook and put the fountain pen back in his pocket, then removed it, placed it on the desk and then replaced it once again in his pocket. He always felt out of sorts when away from home, when he was forced to change his habits. He tried as best he could to recreate his routine when he traveled, but it was never the same. Home felt secure. Being away from home meant being out of his comfort zone, yet what good detective always stayed home?

  The head of the agency was a stickler for details. He called Mr. Miller “The Detail Man,” which was a high compliment, as far as he was concerned. It was one of the things he respected about the agency, the way they valued specific information. Few people truly appreciated an orderly report. They were result oriented. Results meant getting paid. The faster the results were in, the sooner the money was in the bank. Or back in the bank, in this particular instance.

  Personally, he didn’t care about money, which was good, since the agency paid so poorly. He had accrued a hefty savings over the years and invested his money so wisely that he knew he could retire young. What he did care about was order. He hadn’t missed a single Perry Mason episode while growing up and it bugged him to this day how many cases could have been solved sooner. If only Della had made orderly lists for Mr. Mason instead of just making phone calls and discussing things. Now, if he, Mr. Miller, had been on those cases, it would have been different. They never would have missed anything. The shows might have been shorter, but they could have solved more than one mystery per episode. Maybe ten or twenty – yes, twenty would have been perfect. One every three minutes…no, make that two minutes and twenty seconds, to allow for advertising.