Cranberry Bluff

by Deborah Garner

  The point was people were not as detail oriented as they needed to be, especially in the field of detective work. With this thought in mind, he opened the notebook again and looked over his current list. Double-checking everything was crucial. Had he missed anything? No. Every detail about her was recorded – clothing, hair, jewelry and behavior. One more day of observations and he would have a list to turn in.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Molly set the registration book aside and turned her thoughts to the following morning’s breakfast. No one was checking out and no one was arriving, so she’d have the same number of mouths to feed. She’d need to make a market run that afternoon, in time to be back before the wine and cheese hour at five o’clock. This reminded her to pick up a round of Gouda cheese, as well as the breakfast supplies. As for the morning menu, French toast with fresh raspberries would make a main entrée. She’d do a basic egg scramble with herbs from the inn’s garden to go along with it. And maybe…yes, fresh squeezed juice, cranberry applesauce and two types of baked goods, for variety.

  List made, she set it aside and thought about the current mix of guests. They were an odd group, no two people similar in any way. The newlyweds were young and sweet. The effervescent woman from San Francisco was a bundle of enthusiasm. The quiet businessman was nondescript – obviously someone who liked to be left alone. And that other man, that…handsome, infuriating man! He was harder to figure out, but she’d put her money on the playboy type. Wealthy, spoiled, entitled…the list could go on and on. She’d worked with people like that back at the ad agency in Florida.

  She shuddered as thoughts of Florida crossed her mind again. She tried hard not to think about the life she left behind, but reminders still nudged their way in. The phone was a perfect example. She never answered it directly, but she would still reach for the phone when she heard it. She was prompt about returning messages, usually getting back to people within a few minutes. Excuses were easy – “I just stepped out” or “I was helping a guest.” No one ever questioned why a machine answered in this day and age. It let her screen the calls.

  What made her nervous were the hang-ups in voicemail. They were probably nothing important, only computer solicitations or marketing surveys. And prospective guests would rather talk to a person than a machine, so they were likely to call back another time. Still, those blank messages reminded her of calls she received after the bank robbery – nothing but empty space on the other end of the line or, worse, the hushed sound of someone breathing. Had those come from whoever was sending her the anonymous threats? Or were they coincidental?

  Maybe there wasn’t really any way to leave a life behind. All a person could do was hope for the best. She doubted there was such a thing as absolute safety. But distance could help, even if only to keep paranoia from overtaking her daily life.

  Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not after you. Funny how she’d always found that saying humorous – until it became too real.

  As for the debonair guest, maybe she was being too hard on him. It wasn’t fair to associate his behavior with her former company’s snooty clients. Perhaps he just came across as arrogant, but was, inside, as nondescript as Mr. Miller seemed to be.

  “Excuse me.”

  Molly practically flew out of her chair at the sound of the deep voice. She turned around to find Bryce Winslow standing not quite three feet away, a charming grin stretching from cheek to cheek. Personal space, she chided, silently. Comfort zone. She pressed her back against the desk, trying to give herself breathing room.

  “What can I do for you?” She spit the words out with less composure than she would have preferred.

  Bryce smiled. “How would you like to help me?”

  There’s such a thing as giving too much credit where credit isn’t due. Back to square one; he was arrogant, just as she’d first thought.

  Tempted to throw out a smart retort, she reminded herself that he was a guest. Luckily, she also caught herself before seeing the ice bucket in his hands.

  “Oh,” she said. I sound like an idiot. I LOOK like an idiot.

  “I’ll be glad to fill that for you.”

  Another manly grin. “I can do it if you’ll tell me where the ice machine is,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Winslow…”

  “Bryce…”

  “Yes, Bryce, that’s right. I’m sorry but we don’t have an ice machine.” Molly smiled in an attempt to appear nonchalant. “I’ll fill it in the kitchen for you.” She edged her way alongside the desk and headed for the kitchen. Was she imagining it or had he kept his same position, forcing her to maneuver a way out of the close space? Yes, she had him nailed correctly from the start – self-assured, used to getting his way, used to getting his women.

  Molly let the kitchen door close behind her, relieved to have a moment to herself to recover from being startled. Whether it was simply from the unexpected interruption or Bryce’s presence, the effect was the same: her nerves were rattled.

  She opened the freezer and filled the bucket, making a mental note to install an ice machine somewhere. Perhaps she could convert a hallway closet that was far enough from guest rooms to avoid disturbing them. The old-fashioned metal ice trays that she’d inherited from Aunt Maggie worked fine, and she kept them filled even when the larger freezer container was full. But it would be better for the guests – and her sanity – to have ice accessible to everyone.

  Returning to the front of the inn, she found Bryce leaning casually against the wall next to her desk, arms crossed, one foot kicked across the other. She extended the filled ice bucket toward him and watched him pause just long enough to tease her before taking it from her hands. Whispering a dramatic “Thank you!” he grinned once more before vanishing up the stairs to his room.

  CHAPTER TEN

  This was not going to be easy. Bryce Winslow shut the door to his room and set the ice bucket on a side table. Fetching ice had only been a convenient excuse to browse downstairs. Luckily, he’d thought to take the container with him, in case he ran into Molly.

  He hadn’t expected any of this when he agreed to the job. The description he’d received of Molly was that of fugitive on the run, a hardened criminal. When he’d arrived at the inn, his first thought was that he was at the wrong B&B. But the address was right and the innkeeper’s name was right. And, once he’d gotten into his room, unpacked and had a chance to go over his paperwork and photos, it was clear. This was the girl. At least she was the one Al thought was guilty. Bryce wasn’t so sure.

  It was rare that he had the problem he had now. Crooks were usually exactly as described. There was nothing appealing about them. The ones he tracked down were often slimy and unkempt. They radiated guilt. He never questioned bringing any of them in. After all, his job wasn’t distinguishing the guilty from the innocent.

  What was his job, anyway? Sometimes he wasn’t quite sure. He thought of himself as a private investigator but knew that wasn’t his reputation. He was known more as a bounty hunter, though he disliked that label. He wasn’t required to research whether or not the person he tracked was guilty. The people who hired him, those on the right side of the law and those not, determined guilt or innocence. They chose the target, gave him instructions, and he brought the person in. In exchange for the delivery, he got paid. And paid well, he had to admit. Still, it was just money. He wasn’t righting wrongs or making the world a better place. When it came down to it, his life was more or less a scavenger hunt. Take a list, locate the items, turn them in and earn rewards.

  But something felt wrong this time. Sure, Molly was pretty and looked more like a Girl Scout than a thief, but that wasn’t all. He’d already set aside the stirrings of attraction he’d felt when she’d greeted him the night before at check-in. This wasn’t personal. He’d learned his lesson in that department.

  That was one mistake he’d never make again, getting involved with a target. The glamorous, buxom blonde in Rio had almost cost him his li
fe. She’d wined and dined him until he couldn’t see straight, taking him to all the hottest nightclubs in the city. As it was, it cost him fifty grand, since she managed to slip through his fingers – literally. She left him oiled up and massaged asleep in a poolside cabana. That should have been an easy twenty-four hour turnaround. Instead he’d had to use inside Brazilian connections to get away from her henchmen, not to mention her jealous lover. Add to that the ten grand he forked out to appease the guy who’d hired him. Rio had been a bust.

  This was different. Something deep down in his gut said he was on the wrong track. It might be the right town, the right address, even the right person, according to the job description. But she wasn’t the one who’d taken the money.

  If only this could be considered good news, but it wasn’t. He was expected to bring her back with him within the week. Normally, he wouldn’t be worried. There was always a local police department, if not the FBI, watching his back on these assignments. He usually handed the subjects he brought in over to the authorities who transferred them to a jail or delivered them to a courthouse. Usually. But the people involved this time were heavy handed and crossing them could be a mistake of epic proportions. Still, he’d escaped the Rio disaster, so he ought to be able to escape this.

  Bryce tossed the ice in the basin and shook out the container, setting it aside to dry. Moving to the front window, he leaned against the sill and looked out across the bluff, at the ocean. He needed to think the situation through. Not taking her back would put him in danger. Taking her back would put her in danger. There was only one answer he could come up with. He was going to have to prove she was innocent. The question was, how?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Susie strolled a good six blocks from the bed and breakfast, zigzagging from one street to another, until she was far enough from the inn to be out of sight. She hid behind a water tower and sat on a low bench, knees propped up in front of her, heels digging into the bench’s seat. She leaned back against the wooden slats and pulled a cigarette from the package in her pocket. Lighting it, she drew in a fierce puff and exhaled slowly.

  These were the worst scenarios for assignments, the ones where she had to play the nice girl the entire time – sweet, adored by all. It wasn’t that she couldn’t pull it off; she’d done it many times. But it bored her to tears, compared to the thrill of, say, posing as a prostitute or a drug dealer for the police department. Granted, she only got those assignments as bargains to get out of scuffles with the law. Still, those were her favorites, guaranteed to weave a little excitement into the job.

  This current assignment was about as boring as they came. Take the setting, for a start: a bed and breakfast in a little cutesy town. There wasn’t even a bar that stayed open past midnight. This seemed like a waste of a business opportunity to Susie. In a town this drab, what else was there to do at night? The bars might as well stay open just to give people a place to go. Hell, they could probably make some extra bucks out of the back room, taking bets or selling drugs. Too bad there wasn’t such a place in Cranberry Cove. She could turn someone in for dealing and pick up some good stuff herself. At least that would up the excitement level of this trip.

  Then there was the innkeeper herself. Molly hardly resembled some of the crooks she’d known over the years. Not that she cared. Tracking her down had been enough. She’d just have to keep up the goody two shoes newlywed cover until she could be sure Molly was the right girl. And until she found the money.

  Which brought her to the main annoyance with this case: Dan Patterson. It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with the Patterson Detective Agency. It was a reputable company, well backed financially by old family money. They always paid promptly. The cases they took on were solid, despite being boring. The only one drawback to working for them was being forced to team up with Dan Patterson.

  Since Dan, the head honcho, had such a ridiculous, schoolboy crush on her, he tagged along on her assignments anytime he could. She knew he set these jobs up as excuses to force her to spend time with him. She avoided them whenever possible, but this time she’d decided to grin and bear it. The opportunity was too perfect. It served her personal agenda, provided Dan didn’t catch on, which was unlikely, dimwit that he was.

  Working around Molly was going to be a challenge. It would take a lot of snooping to figure out where the money from the bank robbery was hidden. Cranberry Cottage Bed and Breakfast was a decent sized establishment, compared to many small inns with only two or three rooms. The money could be in one of the guest rooms or the laundry room or the kitchen. Or the attic. There must be an attic.

  Or it could be in the Cottage Suite, right under their noses. That was a possibility. At least searching there would be easy enough.

  She tried to brush away the thought of Dan. The way he hovered over her and had fun playing newlyweds was creepy. She’d managed to keep him off her so far, but she’d have to start getting clever about it. His hands were wandering closer each day. During their first pseudo-married night she’d spent too much time slapping him away. In the suite, he was easy to handle. But at the inn, in front of other people, it was more challenging. As much as she would have liked to haul off and slug him at the breakfast table – just to get the day started on a clear foot, if nothing else – she couldn’t. Staying in character was as important, if not more important, than physical disguises. If Molly didn’t buy their cover, they’d be in trouble. Susie would be in trouble.

  Susie stood, dropped the cigarette and stamped it out. She watched the grey ash blot against the cement walkway. Another butt extinguished, one of many she’d ground into the pavement over the years. Hopefully, another of many jobs done soon, as well.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Sadie had never liked handwritten notes, even when she was younger. In grade school, they were a fast ticket into detention hall. In high school, they could be intercepted and used for blackmail. In college, they paved an easy path for a student to take advantage of someone else’s research. And in detective work, they were dangerous. In the wrong hands, information could be passed along to ill-chosen recipients. Enemies, maybe, or competitors.

  Instead, she put her trust in technology. She had three cell phones, all registered to different names. Email addresses numbered in the dozens, many tied to websites that bore no resemblance to each other, either in business type, location or design. They were hosted by different web companies and accessed from remote servers. Thank heavens for the age of tablets, too. It used to be hard carrying three laptops with her, just to keep IP addresses separate. But the equivalent number of tablets wasn’t enough to throw out her back, which is exactly what happened in Minnesota years ago. Of course, the cold air and the fact she’d walked off an airplane without stretching didn’t help. But she was confident now she could sling a case full of tablets over her shoulder without pulling any muscles.

  Sadie sat in the bay window of the Battenberg Room and balanced a tablet on her lap, pulling up the email of Dotty Trainor of Nebraska. Dotty was one of her favorite character disguises. She was the opposite of everything that Sadie thought herself to be. Dotty was timid, insecure, just a tad younger than Sadie – amazing what make-up could do! All in all, she was a wonderful person, one of those church-going types. She passed herself off as a florist, which allowed her to send deliveries to locations near and far – so convenient. Dotty was so self-effacing that she would never be suspected of snooping around. Sadie liked her so much that she often forgot she wasn’t a real person.

  There were others she was fond of, even if they were too much of a stretch to play in person. Guadalupe “Lupe” Maria Moreno was one of those. Much younger and much sexier, Sadie would have loved to live in Lupe’s Acapulco villa. Even Sadie didn’t have the flair that Lupe had in her closets. Closets, plural, of course, because she had five of them, each filled with ruffled skirts, slinky blouses, spandex pants, finely knit sweater dresses. There were stilettos in every color, some strappy and sassy, others simple
and chic. On racks that many would use for belts, Lupe hung gold strands of semi-precious stones, sterling silver pendants and intricate beaded chokers. Four large baskets – four, mind you – were stuffed with scarves: solid, print, silk, knit, bold, sleek and everything in between. More than two hundred of them, at last count. Aside from her sensational couture collection, she drove a fire engine red Ferrari. That alone was worth envy.

  Another favorite online disguise was Jane Simon, the New York jet setter. As wealthy as Lupe, her lifestyle was entirely different. Her penthouse loft looked out over Manhattan, thirty-seven stories above the pretzel vendors and newspaper hawkers. She spent more time out of the country than in, traveling to Tokyo, Paris, London and even Budapest, when she had a whimsical craving for goulash. A tall, leggy redhead, she had never been seen in person by anyone who hired her, of course. But they knew she existed online through coded photos. Each photo contained information about whatever case she was on. And she always solved them. Her batting average was perfect, as was her evasive nature.

  Yes, Jane was quite a remarkable detective, Sadie had to admit. One of the best she’d ever invented.

  But, enough daydreaming about her imaginary co-workers, Sadie thought. Back to Dotty. She opened a blank email to send to…Mario. Yes, Mario would do. She loved to imagine what he would be like if he were real, such a sweetheart, a kind, gentle soul, full of southern wisdom and Cuban connections. His character was handy, as well as entertaining. Binky could log into Mario’s email account and read between the lines. It was their personal way of communicating.