MURDER AT THE MARINA
I walked briskly back to Redwood Cove Bed and Breakfast. Helen was starting to put out the appetizers in the parlor. I joined her with a tray of wineglasses, then retrieved a bottle of chardonnay from the refrigerator and a merlot from the wine rack. I opened them and put the bottles next to the glasses.
I returned to my rooms, did some more paperwork, and was starting to think about dinner when my cell phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Kelly, I need your help.”
I knew it was Rudy’s voice, but there was a quavering quality to it I’d never heard before.
“Rudy, what’s happened?”
“The police found a body on the Nadia.”
“What! Who?”
“Alexander Koskov. He was shot…”
Books by Janet Finsilver
MURDER AT REDWOOD COVE
MURDER AT THE MANSION
MURDER AT THE FORTUNE TELLER’S TABLE
MURDER AT THE MUSHROOM FESTIVAL
MURDER AT THE MARINA
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Table of Contents
MURDER AT THE MARINA
Books by Janet Finsilver
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
About the Author
Murder at the Marina
Janet Finsilver
LYRICAL UNDERGROUND
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
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Copyright © 2019 by Janet Finsilver
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Lyrical Underground and Lyrical Underground logo Reg. US Pat. & TM Off.
First Electronic Edition: April 2019
ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0424-6 (ebook)
ISBN-10: 1-5161-0424-2 (ebook)
First Print Edition: April 2019
ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0425-3
ISBN-10: 1-5161-0425-0
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
To E.J., my husband, who is always there for me.
Acknowledgments
My husband, E.J., accompanies me on my journeys to fictitious Redwood Cove. He’s always willing and ready to help with questions I have or to give me feedback, which I greatly appreciate. My amazing writing group made up of Colleen Casey, Staci McLaughlin, Ann Parker, Carole Price, and Penny Warner gave me phenomenal comments about my chapters, as well as many opportunities to share laughter. My two beta readers, Cyndie Bell and Linda Uhrenholt, provided very useful feedback with their thoughtful reading of this book. My friend Monique Young was a tremendous resource when it came to Russian history. I am very lucky to work with an outstanding agent, Dawn Dowdle, and a great editor, John Scognamiglio. They both give me a great deal of support. Thank you all!
Chapter 1
My heart raced as the Appaloosa galloped down the beach, his hooves flinging sand high into the air. I balanced my weight in the saddle and urged him on. The horse lengthened his stride, stretching his body full out, his gait long and smooth. It was the first time I’d let him run so fast. I knew the packed sand along the water’s edge would absorb the shock of the hard run and protect his legs.
Crashing waves spewed foam on my right as they encountered rocky outcroppings jutting up from the Pacific Ocean. The tang of the salt air filled my lungs. An occasional spray of water landed on Nezi and me. My eyes teared as the wind whipped past.
I didn’t want it to end, but he’d run long enough. I began pulling him in. Nezi pulled back at the bit, apparently not wanting it to end either. I continued the gentle, firm pressure on the reins. Slowly, he responded. His pace became a gentle canter, then a trot, and finally an energetic walk. Water lapped around his feet as a dying wave reached us.
I’d had many great rides on my family’s Wyoming ranch, but none of them had filled my senses like what I’d just experienced. The bright blue ocean, the black rocks, and the slate gray cliffs towering high on my left, alternated with the dense green redwood forest of Northern California. Narrow ribbons of runoff water meandered their way to the ocean across the sand. The smells and sounds of the sea mixed together—an orchestra of sensation. Ocean mist covered my face and my skin tingled from its cool touch. Adrenaline coursed through my body after the exhilarating ride.
I took a deep breath and headed toward a path winding up and away from the beach. The salty ocean air became fainter as it mingled with the earthy scents of the redwood forest. Sunlight dappled the trail and leaves muted Nezi’s hoofbeats. A stream ran near the trail, and I reined Nezi over to it to give him a drink. I stopped in a bright patch of sunlight. As the horse lowered his head, I leaned back in the saddle and soaked up the rays.
He plunged his nose in and took long sips. Suddenly, he began pawing at the water.
“You go ahead and have fun, boy. You deserve it. That was a wonderful ride.” I patted his slim neck with its white background covered by assorted black spots ranging in size from a dime to a half dollar.
Liquid diamonds flew into the air and cascaded down as he splashed. True horseplay! Nezi shook his head, snorted, and turned his head to look at me. A white crescent moon framed his dark brown eye.
I looked at my watch. “Time to head back,” I told him.
We got back on the trail and headed for Redwood Cove Stable. We emerged from the forest, and the barn and the white-fenced paddocks with lush green grass were straight ahead. I stopped at a hitching rail, dismounted, and tied Nezi to it. He had lathered up during the run, but the walk had dried him off.
I removed the saddle and pad I had brought from home when Diane Wilcox, the owner of the stable, had offered to let me ride Nezi when he was available. She had given me a place to stow my gear, which I really appreciated. I headed for
the tack room. I took Nezi’s halter off a peg with his name under it and put my saddle on the stand I’d been given to use.
I opened the refrigerator in the tack room and took out the container of carrot chunks I’d brought as a treat for Nezi. I chose a brush from the ones lined up on a shelf next to the door. The sweet scent of alfalfa enveloped me as I passed several light green bales of hay.
Returning to Nezi, I replaced his bridle with the halter and tied him to the post with a rope. I placed a piece of carrot on my outstretched palm and offered it to the Appaloosa. He grabbed it and munched as I brushed. Several pieces of carrot later and he was ready to go into his stall. I led him to it and offered him my shoulder as a rubbing post, a way of saying thank you. I gave him a last pat, stopped at the tack room to put his bridle away, and left.
When I emerged from the barn, I found Diane standing at the hitching rail talking to a middle-aged man. The word long came to mind as I looked at him. He was tall, probably about six feet four, with arms dangling down his sides and Abraham Lincoln legs. Soft brown curls covered his head.
Diane smiled at me. “Hi, Kelly. How was the ride?”
“Fantastic! Thank you so much for letting me take Nezi out.”
“Happy to do it. It’s good for him to get the exercise.” She turned to the gentleman next to her. “I’d like you to meet Tom Brodsky. Tom, this is Kelly Jackson, manager of Redwood Cove Bed and Breakfast.”
He thrust out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” I said, and we shook.
Diane looked at the clipboard in her hand. “Tom is involved in planning for the Russian Heritage Festival that’s taking place next weekend. We were finalizing plans for a Cossack riding team to stable their horses here during the event.”
“Their horsemanship skills are legendary.” I looked at Tom. “Will they be performing for the public?”
“Yes. The festival schedule is online, if you’re interested.”
“I’ll definitely make it a point to come to see them,” I said.
“The entire event is a lot of fun,” Tom said. “Our goals are to teach people about our Russian heritage, as well as raise funds for educational scholarships. We’ll have everything from rope making to basket weaving to candle rolling. It’s all interactive. There are a multitude of singing and dancing groups as well.”
“I’ll look it up when I get back to the inn.”
“I understand there’s a new location this year,” Diane said. “I heard it’ll be held outside of Redwood Cove instead of at Fort Nelsen.”
A frown creased Tom’s forehead. “Yeah. Not my idea.” He sighed. “It is what it is.”
Diane lowered her clipboard. “Everything looks complete in terms of the horses. We’ll have everything ready when the Cossacks arrive, and I’ll have the house trailer at the event field tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Diane.” He turned to me. “One of the organizers from San Francisco is bringing a setup crew and asked me to find accommodations for them. Diane kindly offered to let us use her trailer.”
“That sounds like a good plan. They’ll be on site,” I said.
Diane smiled at Tom. “He’s part of the Russian Heritage committee. I was happy to be able to help.”
Tom looked at me. “I’ll be at your inn tomorrow for a committee meeting.”
“I saw it listed on the calendar.”
“I’d better be going,” Tom said. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Jackson.”
“Please call me Kelly. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Tom walked off toward the parking lot.
Diane turned to me. “Glad you had fun, Kelly. I’m looking forward to when we can get in a ride together.”
“Me, too.” We said our good-byes, and I headed for my Jeep.
I was going to meet Rudy and Ivan Doblinsky, two Russian brothers I’d met when I arrived in Redwood Cove. I had encountered them my first day at the inn, when Ivan’s roar of, “It’s murder and you know it” had made its way down the hall of Redwood Cove Bed and Breakfast and into my living quarters. That hadn’t boded well for the first day of my new job, and I had headed out to find the source. That’s when I met the Silver Sentinels, a crime-solving group of senior citizens, of which Rudy and Ivan were members.
That was months ago. Today, I was on my way to see their fishing boat, Nadia. She’d come up in conversation a number of times, and I was looking forward to seeing her. I drove up the road toward the marina, located north of the town of Fort Peter.
On my way there, I decided to take a short detour to see the bed and breakfast my boss, Michael Corrigan, had just purchased. He owned the company I worked for, called Resorts International, and was passionate about restoring historic properties.
I stopped in front of a lovely but faded three-story colonial-style home. Curlicues of gingerbread trim adorned the eaves, their paint peeling but still in place. It would be fun to come back after the restoration to see the grand lady as she once looked.
I continued on to the marina, found a parking space, and changed my cowboy boots for tennis shoes. I looked at my watch and saw I was early but decided to see if the brothers had already arrived. They had given me directions, but what was crystal clear to them had me a little confused. I walked in the general direction of where I thought I was supposed to go, aware of the slight smell of fish.
I spied a man in baggy denim bib overalls wearing a dusty black Giants baseball cap, his gray hair curled up over its sides. He basked in the sun outside a small bait shop in a rocking chair. Fishing nets and tackle equipment hung on the building’s gray boards. Handwritten signs advertising live sardines and bait shrimp were tacked on the wall. An old, personalized fluorescent clock declared it to be Tim’s Place.
I approached him. “Hi, I’m Kelly Jackson.” I smiled. “Are you Tim?”
“Nope. He ain’t here no more. Done moved on. I’m Joe.” The missing front tooth didn’t mar the congeniality in his voice.
“I’m here to meet the Doblinsky brothers at their boat, Nadia. I’m wondering if you could help me with directions.”
“Sure. Glad to.” He pointed an arthritic finger in the direction of a gate. “Walk on through there. It ain’t locked right now. The boat’s down apiece on the left.”
A few minutes later, I stood in front of a large white vessel with black trim. Nadia in large bold black letters on the bow assured me I’d found what I’d been seeking.
“Rudy…Ivan…are you here?” I called out.
I didn’t get a response and decided to knock on the cabin door. I grabbed the metal rails next to an opening and boarded the boat. My knock brought no response. I could clearly see into the galley below. A tidy compact kitchen, a boothed dining area, and a small table filled the area. A living room with built-in couches along both sides of the wall occupied the right side.
The dining table was in clear view, with a shaft of sunlight illuminating it. I caught a glimpse of a multicolored object sparkling in the sun’s bright light at the table’s edge. I stepped a little to the side and craned my neck to see better.
What I saw was the hilt of a dagger.
The handle glinted in the sun, but the curved blade didn’t shine like the rest of it.
A dull, rust-colored material covered the metal…the color of dried blood.
The cold hand of fear squeezed my heart.
Chapter 2
My breath quickened. I stepped back and grabbed my cell phone from my pocket. Was what I saw enough to call 911? I could try to reach Deputy Stanton directly. I’d met him, along with Rudy and Ivan, on my first day. The No Cell Phone Service signal brought an answer to my dilemma. I’d have to find a pay phone.
I turned to go, then stopped. What if that was blood on the knife? Someone might be hurt. I had to search the boat to be sure no one was inside injured.
The brothers ha
d told me where a key to the cabin door was located, in case they were late. They had sheepishly admitted they often forgot to bring their key, so they kept a spare on the boat. I went to the equipment box mounted against the cabin a few feet from the door and opened it. It was filled with frayed netting. Three rusty boxes were stacked on top of each other in a back corner. The key was in the bottom one.
I unlocked the cabin door, then hesitated. If there was an attacker on board, I needed to be prepared to defend myself. I scanned the deck but saw nothing useful. I took a deep breath, opened the door, and peered in. A wooden ladder led down to the living area. Equipment hung on the wall at the bottom next to the dining area. No one was under the ladder.
I descended the stairs and stopped to listen. The only sound was the gentle lapping of the ever-moving ocean on the sides of the boat…and the pounding of my heart. I didn’t call out again. If someone wanted me to know they were there, they would’ve answered my knock.
I surveyed the objects on the wall. There was a sturdy-looking pole with a hooked end I could use. I took it off its peg and gripped it tightly.
I stood next to the galley, and a quick look around revealed no signs of a struggle or blood. I glanced at the knife. Gemstones of many sizes and colors along the hilt sparkled in the sun’s bright light. The curved metal blade could do some serious damage and maybe had, considering the color of the substance on it.
I walked across the living area to a place concealed by curtains, raised the pole, and held it tightly. I prepared to pull back the covering that blocked off the bow. I’d been on some fishing trips with my family and had some knowledge of the layout of boats. I suspected this was a sleeping area. Holding my breath, I pulled the curtain aside. I exhaled with a whoosh when I found a neatly made bed covered with an open navy blue sleeping bag and clearly no body-size lumps under it.
Going to the stern, I discovered two small rooms empty of people but full of gear. No one lurked in the bathroom. I climbed up the ladder and went outside, thankful to be out of the cramped quarters. I wanted to check the deck for anywhere an injured person might be. I looked out at the water and saw two small motorboats nearby. Each had a fisherman in it. They were close enough to hear me if I screamed for help.
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