Murder at Redwood Cove (3 page)

T
he Professor arched an eyebrow. “It's a bit melodramatic, but we like it.”

“Best undercover as long as we're not ten feet under.” Ivan chuckled.

“Ivan, don't say that anymore.” Gertie rapped the table again with her cane. “Enough!”

“I like it,” he said.

“I don't,” Gertie snapped back, “and the others don't, either. It's ghoulish.”

Mary pulled a skein of yarn and needles from a voluminous bag and began knitting furiously. Eyes looked everywhere but at Ivan. The needles clacked.

“Our mortality confronts us each morning when we wake once again and with the death of friends,” the Professor stated quietly. “We have some unique opportunities to do detective work, but . . . we can do without the reminder about where we'll end up.”

I was intrigued. “What exactly does your group do?”

“We assist local law enforcement.”

“Rudy was robbed.” Mary patted him on the knee. “That's what got us started.”

He nodded. “Slick pickpocket routine.”

“The police said they were having a rash of similar crimes targeting tourists,” the Professor volunteered.

“Yah. I fooled them. I had my go-to-lunch clothes on. The chess club meets at Rosie's Grill every two weeks.” He laughed. “I only carry an ID card and some change. The café puts the meal on my monthly bill.”

“We're members of a community group,” Gertie said. “Rudy told them what was happening and asked if they wanted to do something. It was discussed and eventually dropped.”

“Several of us talked after the meeting and wanted to pursue it further. Coffee a few times and the Silver Sentinels were born,” said the Professor.

“The only unusual thing Rudy remembered was a couple of teenagers roughhousing and bumping into him.” Mary's hands continued to knit as she talked.

“We decided to watch and listen and agreed to take pictures of pairs of teenagers with our cell phones.” Gertie reached for her glass of water. “Thanks again, Professor, for showing us how to do that.”

“The police said most incidents took place in the afternoon.” Mary beamed at me. “We picked a nice day when lots of people were out, and each of us chose a different station throughout town.”

“I don't know if you've had a chance to see much of Redwood Cove yet,” said the Professor. “Since the main shopping part of town only entails about five square blocks, we could cover it pretty well.”

“We sat for several hours and then met,” Gertie said. “None of us saw anything obvious. The Professor called Deputy Stanton and asked if there had been any incidents. He reported a man walking with his wife had lost his wallet. Had the couple remembered anything? Some teenagers playing around and running into them.”

“The deputy told us where it happened.” Mary's needles clicked. “It was near my station. I showed my pictures to the group.”

“I remember see them pass. And”—Ivan pronounced the words like a lawyer with a killer statement—“I saw them duck under a back porch.”

“They took a local shortcut across my friend Sophie's backyard.” Gertie's face filled with a look of affection. “We taught together for over thirty years.” Her shoulders drooped. “Doesn't see or hear too well now. Lives at the front of her house. The only time someone is at the back of her place is when maintenance guys whack the weeds four times a year.”

“We explained to her what had been seen and asked if it was okay to search the backyard.” Mary reached for a brownie. “She was fine with it.”

“I wear gloves like on television,” Ivan said.

“Ivan gave us all disposable gloves he got at the market,” Mary said.

“We found a box behind a pile of wood with wallets containing drivers' licenses,” the Professor shared. “They were probably trying to think of a way to sell the IDs. Credit cards and money were gone.”

“We called the police. With our photographs and the stash of goods, they were able to make an arrest.” Rudy's voice filled with pride.

“The Silver Sentinels solved their first case.” Mary paused for a moment in the creation of what appeared to be a tiny pink sweater.

The Professor leaned forward. “Since then we've helped uncover pot selling at a local gas station and abalone poaching at a nearby beach.”

“When you're gray-haired and slow-moving, you often become invisible to younger people,” Gertie said quietly. “We can sit for hours on a bench with no one acknowledging us.”

“It's amazing what we hear.” Mary put her knitting down. “It's perfect for our investigative work.”

My heart went out to these caring members of the community.

Mary reached out for Rudy's hand. “Thank you and Ivan so much for helping to create the Silver Sentinels.” She squeezed his hand. “I have a new purpose in life.”

“We good at finding things out.” Ivan expanded his chest. “We good detectives.”

A clatter of canine nails on the floor heralded the arrival of Fred. He skidded around the corner and into the room, followed by Tommy.

“Fred, my fine friend.” The Professor gave a welcoming pat on his leg.

The low-slung dog made the rounds grinning widely, full body wagging. He paused at Ivan and leaned on his leg, gazing at him with deep brown, soul-searching basset hound eyes.

“My good buddy.” Ivan reached down and rubbed the long, silky ears.

“Mom wanted me to ask if anyone needs anything.” Tommy paused. “Do you?”

“We're fine, honey,” Mary said. “Let your mom know we said thanks for asking.”

“Ms. Jackson”—he looked at me—“Mom wants to know if everything in your room is okay.”

“It's fine, Tommy. Why don't you call me Miss Kelly. My students found that easier than Ms. Jackson.”

“Okay, Miss Kelly.”

“Tommy, why aren't you in school today?” questioned Gertie.

“Parent conference day. Tomorrow afternoon, too.” He was gone in a flash, Fred scampering after him.

The Professor toyed with a pen and then put it down. “We want to know if Bob met with foul play.”

“I understand. It makes sense to track his meetings for that day. I'll ask the deputy for the BlackBerry.” I looked at the tired, wrinkled faces intensely staring at me. “I want to work with you to get resolution on Bob's death—be it accidental or . . . not.” I stood. “I'll let you know as soon as I find out something.” I paused at the door. “It's been a real pleasure to meet you. Bob was lucky to have a wonderful, caring group of friends.”

I retraced my steps and found Suzie and Helen bent over what appeared to be catering contracts. Daniel had a large ledger in front of him.

“Hi! Did you get settled in okay?” Suzie asked.

“Yes. It's a beautiful room.”

“We're reading over Bob's plans for a meeting this Friday,” Helen said. “It's the final get-together for the A Taste of Chocolate and Wine Festival Committee before the event this Saturday.”

“There are a large number of regular guests coming in tomorrow, who are planning to attend this weekend.” Suzie shot me a meaningful look.

Repeat visitors were a valued commodity. “What can I do to help?” Part of me was itching to see what was arranged, the other part telling me to give them some time to do their work and adjust to my presence.

“We're about done putting the paperwork together. Would discussing it in an hour work?” Suzie asked.

“Perfect. I want to go to the beach, breathe some fresh ocean air, and wash away my jet lag.” I turned to go. “And it'll give me a chance to start on a report for the company.”

“Wait.” Helen rushed to a large tray, grabbed several warm chocolate chip cookies, and put them in a plastic container. “It's a tradition. No arguing. Guests take these with them on their first visit to Redwood Cove Beach.” Helen handed me the cookies.

I laughed. “I'm not going to buck tradition.” I lifted the lid and sniffed. “Oh my. What a treat!”

Helen took a canvas bag off of a hook on the wall. “Here's a backpack with a beach mat and towels. It's part of what we offer our guests.” She reached into a cupboard and pulled out a plastic bag filled with bread chunks. “These are for the seagulls if you want to feed them.” Helen stuffed the crumbs into the black and tan bag and handed it to me.

I packed the cookies safely away along with my fanny pack.

“Daniel said you'd like some coffee. Regular or decaf?”

“Regular, and I drink it black.”

Helen poured some in a small thermos. I tucked it in the bag, and Helen gave me directions to the beach.

I descended the stairs at the back of the inn, glad to have some time to myself to think about the Silver Sentinels and their concern that Bob might have been murdered. A delivery van was parked at the bottom with M
ANGINI
D
ISTRIBUTORS
emblazoned on the truck's side in bright red letters. A young Asian man in jeans and a light yellow shirt rounded the corner, almost colliding with me.

“Sorry,” he blurted.

“No problem.”

I glimpsed a flash of perfect white teeth. My gaze riveted on his name tag.

He followed my stare. “Yeah. I know. A bit weird.” He opened the back of the van. “My mom thought the guy was the best. She has a collection of all of his movies.”

I was talking to Charlie Chan.

“M
om wanted me to follow in the steps of the famous detective. You know, solve murders and get the bad guys.” Charlie opened the back door of the van, leaned in, and pulled out a jug of water. “Not me. I'm going to be a dentist. Four-day workweek.” He placed the bottle on the back porch. Another glimpse of stunningly white teeth. “Golf Wednesdays. That's for me, man.”

“Do you go to college around here?”

“No. I went to San Francisco State. Finished fall semester. This company was hiring, so here I am. Earning some money and enjoying the north coast. I'm off to the University of the Pacific in August.” He slung another container out and placed it next to the first one. “Private. More expensive, but worth it.” He slammed the doors shut. “It was nice meeting you,” said the dentist-to-be.

“Same here.”

Charlie headed for the back of the inn, and I turned and walked down the driveway.

The colorful flowers that had caught my eye as we drove in now enveloped me in their sweet scent. The air carried a fragrance a perfume company could only hope to catch in a bottle. A gust of wind brought the salty sea and a brush of mist on my cheeks.

A small, hand-painted sign ahead read BEACH in blue letters and directed people to a narrow dirt path. I wound my way downward, ice plant in bright orange and deep greens on both sides of the track. A short, steep decline in the trail, a sharp turn, and I stopped. Below me waves crashed on rugged rocks, spewing foam and creating iridescent mini-rainbows. The variation of blues in the water would have been welcome on any artist's palette.

I took in a deep breath, and the raw strength of the area filled me. I trotted the remaining length of the trail to the beach.

Low tide. I strolled along the packed, glistening sand. Gnarled pieces of driftwood lay scattered about, creating nature's artwork. A gull landed near me and cocked its head inquisitively.

I walked a short distance above the tide line and put my pack down.

“So, mister gull, do you think I have something for you?” I pulled out the sack Helen had given me, grabbed a handful of crumbs, and tossed them. The bird gobbled the closest piece and gulped it down. It quickly scooped up more as a second bird approached. The first bird raised its wings and cried out as if to say, “They're mine, all mine.”

I reached in for more bread and looked up. The sky was suddenly swarming with gulls. Some began to land around me; others circled and screamed overhead. I flung a handful of chunks into the crowd. One bird savagely lunged at another, chasing it away. An immature gray gull moved aside as a large adult stabbed at a morsel the smaller bird had been eyeing.

Greed. Fear. Competition. All reasons to attack. And reasons to kill. Was Bob murdered? Why would a man so familiar with the area fall to his death?

I tossed a final handful of crumbs upward. Two birds in the air fought over one large piece, their beaks locked together, wings flapping furiously.

As I packed the bag away, the ever-growing group of gulls came closer, their beaks opened wide, shrieking. The Hitchcock movie
The Birds
came to mind for a split second. I stepped back uneasily, then laughed. “Off with you!” I flung my hands in the air and the group rose as one, their raucous cries filling the air.

I picked up my backpack. “Later, guys.”

Searching for somewhere to sit, I spied an outcropping of rugged black rocks that hid the rest of the beach from sight. A boulder the size of a dinosaur egg nestled in the natural windbreak, baking in the sun. The perfect backrest.

I walked over and placed my backpack next to the rock, pulled out the mat and my fanny pack, and sat, letting the warmth of the rock soak into my back. A few stalwart birds remained, lurking nearby. I took a small memo pad and pen out of my pouch. I flipped the cover back and gazed at the blank paper. Murder. Was it?
Stop it, Kelly. You need to concentrate on your job right now, which is to write the report
.

Tommy rounded the corner with Fred on his heels. “Hi.” The boy stumbled in the sand, waved briefly, put his head down, and continued walking.

I had to think fast. I might be able to find out more about the day Bob died and what happened at school to keep him from his meeting. “I have cookies.” I reached into my pack. “Want some?”

He paused. “Are those my mom's?”

“Yes.” I held one out, the top studded with chunks of chocolate.

“They're the best.” He came over and started to sit in the sand.

“Here, sit on the mat.” I patted a spot beside me.

He hesitated, then sat on the far edge. Fred plopped down next to him.

I handed Tommy a cookie and took one for myself. A small crumb fell, and a gull darted in.

“They're Utah's state bird.” Tommy took a bite of cookie as he observed the bird. “There's a monument in Salt Lake City celebrating the miracle of the gulls. They saved the city from a plague of crickets.”

One bird walked toward us, eyeing the cookie in my hand.

“They had a protected status for a while in California because their numbers were getting smaller at Mono Lake, but then their population really grew near San Francisco. They went from less than one thousand birds in 1982 to over thirty-three thousand in 2006.”

I stared at the talking encyclopedia. “How do you know so much about gulls?”

“I love learning new things.” He finished his cookie, wiped a smear of chocolate from his lip with the back of his hand, and looked at my pad. “What're you doing?”

“Writing a report.”

“Sort of like homework, huh?”

“Yes”—I laughed—“sort of like homework.”

Tommy looked out at the sea. Fred groaned contentedly as he soaked up the rays of the sun. The boy reached out and petted him, then leaned down and fiercely wrapped his arms around the dog's neck, burying his face in the smooth black and tan fur.

“I like learning, but I hate school.” His voice sounded muffled. “I'm a reject like Fred.”

Reject
. A harsh, cruel word. I stared at my cookie. Safer to start with the dog.

“Why do you say that about Fred?”

“He was supposed to be a cancer-detecting dog, but he failed his test,” Tommy mumbled.

“I vaguely remember reading something in the newspaper about dogs and their ability to detect cancer. Can you explain it to me?”

Tommy sat up. “The dog's sense of smell is like ten thousand times better than ours.”

Fred's ears twitched as a couple of sand flies buzzed around him. Tommy shooed them away.

“One study showed they can detect lung cancer and melanomas at a ninety-nine percent rate of accuracy. Another one rated their success at eighty-eight percent to ninety-seven percent. The dogs are trained to signal the person when they smell something. Cody, a poodle, would sit on the person's foot. Some dogs use different signals. They can detect other cancers, too.”

Okay. Very, very smart. There was something different about him. He wasn't like most ten-year-olds I knew.

Tommy rubbed the dog's ears. “Fred was in training at the clinic where my dad went when he got sick, but he never learned how to do it. Fred was going to be given to a dog group for placement.” Tears began to well up. “When my dad died, they asked us if we wanted him.”

My throat constricted, and I dove into my pack for Kleenex.

Quiet sobs then some sniffles.

I took a tissue for myself and offered him one. “I have one last cookie. How about splitting it?”

He slowly reached out, took the Kleenex, wiped his eyes, and blew his nose. Fred licked his hand and stared with his deep brown hound eyes at the boy. Tommy shoved the tissue in his pocket and took the half cookie.

“Why did you call yourself a reject?”

“It's what the kids call me at school.” Tommy looked at the dog. “The kids hate me. They call me names, sometimes come after me. I hate school.” He rose up on his knees, reached out, picked up a piece of nearby driftwood, and hurled it at the crashing waves. “Hate it.”

“Why do they pick on you?”

“I like to learn, I talk to my teachers, I get good grades, I don't play sports, I don't listen to music, I'm not interested in being popular. . .” He stopped for breath.

“That's quite a list.”

“Mom thought moving here would make things better.” He grabbed another piece of wood, arched his back, and flung it with a vengeance. “Didn't.”

I nibbled at my cookie. “Have you talked to your teachers?” “Yeah. But the kids get me when the teachers aren't looking. It gets worse if I say something.” He stood abruptly and brushed sand from his jeans. “The day Uncle Bob died, they blocked the door and kept me from getting to class on time. I got detention. If I'd been home to meet him like I was supposed to, he wouldn't have gone for a walk and fallen off the cliff.” The tears surfaced again. “If I had what it takes to make the kids leave me alone, he wouldn't be dead.”

“Tommy . . .”

“Gotta go. A friend is bringing her math work over for help.” Tears dripped down his cheeks. He clapped his hands, and Fred jumped up. “See you later.” He raced his dog down the beach and was gone in a blink.

The kid was a regular vanishing act. I shook my head. Guilt about Bob, dead father, and living a fifth-grade nightmare. Lots to deal with.

I packed up my things and headed back to the inn. If someone planned Bob's death, they would've gotten him one way or another. If Bob was murdered, it would take one huge item off Tommy's list.