The Body in Bodega Bay

 

 

Praise for
Murder in Lascaux
, the first Nora Barnes and Toby Sandler Mystery:

 

 

 

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.

The Body
in Bodega Bay

A Nora Barnes and
Toby Sandler Mystery

Betsy Draine and Michael Hinden

Terrace Books

A trade imprint of the University of Wisconsin Press

Terrace Books
A trade imprint of the University of Wisconsin Press
1930 Monroe Street, 3rd Floor
Madison, Wisconsin 53711-2059
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Copyright © 2014

The Board of Regents of the University of Wisconsin System

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any format or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without written permission of the University of Wisconsin Press, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles and reviews.

Printed in the United States of America

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Draine, Betsy, 1945–, author.

The body in Bodega Bay: a Nora Barnes and Toby Sandler mystery /

Betsy Draine and Michael Hinden.

pages       cm

ISBN 978-0-299-29790-9 (cloth: alk. paper)

ISBN 978-0-299-29793-0 (e-book)

1. Murder—California—Bodega Bay—Fiction.

2. Bodega Bay (Calif.)—Fiction.

I. Hinden, Michael, author. II. Title.

PS3604.R343B63        2014

813´.6—dc23

2013033798

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the authors' imagination or are used fictitiously. No reference to any real person is intended or should be inferred.

 

 

 

For our nephews and nieces, with love:

Josh

Ryan

Caroline

Susie

And in loving memory of:

Danny

Brigitte

I
'
LL BE DAMNED
. There's a body on the boat.”

We were sitting in The Tides having crab cakes for lunch when the news came in over Captain Andy's CB radio. He relayed the information from the table next to us. Andy's a commercial fisherman who works out of Bodega Bay. His mooring is opposite our house.

“That,” said Toby, “explains the commotion in the harbor.”

For months, a sailboat had been wedged in shallow water out by the mudflats, a good distance from either shore. From our dockside table we could see a launch make its way to the grounded boat. It stopped about fifty yards short of the sailboat, and two men emerged. They wore the familiar brown uniform of the Sonoma County sheriffs, but they had on waders—the right footgear for walking the muddy distance to the boat.

The gossip in town was that the old boat, a decrepit nineteen-footer with a single mast, belonged to a bankrupt real-estate speculator from the city. Around here that means San Francisco. For a very long time, he hadn't paid his mooring fees, and he hadn't been seen, either. One night in a storm, his boat broke free and was driven by wind into the shallows of the harbor, where it sank into the mud and tilted to one side. Since then, no one had been willing to pay for the derelict's removal, so there it has remained.

“Do they know who it is?” asked Toby, as we both stood to get a better look. Everyone in The Tides was pushing toward the windows, which wrap around the restaurant on three sides, with views over the water.

“Naw. But it isn't an accident—the guy was stabbed,” Andy replied, pushing back his chair and joining us at the window. “It's a hell of a thing to happen in Bodega Bay.”

Bodega Bay (population 950) is just sixty miles north of San Francisco on the Pacific Coast Highway, better known as Highway 1. We think it's one of the prettiest sites on the coast. True, it straddles the San Andreas Fault, but that didn't stop us from buying a small house overlooking the marina.

My name is Nora Barnes. I teach art history at Sonoma College in Santa Rosa, a short commute from the bay. My husband, Toby Sandler, runs an art and antiques gallery in Duncans Mills, which is up the coast and a few miles inland on Highway 116. We chose Bodega Bay because it's on the water, rural, about equidistant from our jobs, almost affordable by California standards, and—until now—peaceful. Nothing much has happened here since 1962, when Alfred Hitchcock came to town to film
The Birds
. Framed photos of the actors pass for décor at The Tides, where some of the scenes were shot, though the restaurant is a reconstruction of the original, which burned down after the movie was made. These days our little village is home to a dwindling fishing fleet, a swanky golf course, a few restaurants and motels, and us.

“A hell of a thing,” repeated Andy.

We could hear sirens wailing outside, as sheriffs' cars veered into the parking lot. The morning had been foggy, but the sky had cleared by eleven and now the sun glinted on the water as we peered out toward the harbor. Officers were walking onto the wharf behind the restaurant. One was gesturing toward the boat. Another was talking into some device in his hand as a small crowd began to gather, mainly tourists who had come up from the city for the weekend.

“They're waiting for the deputy sheriff before they can bring the body out,” reported Andy, who was monitoring communications on the police band. That would be Dan Ellis. Dan is married to my friend Colleen, and both are members of our Gourmet Club, four couples who meet for dinner every other month. Dan is Bodega Bay's resident deputy, attached to the sheriff's office in Santa Rosa.

Maybe it was telepathy, but no sooner did I think of Dan than Toby's cell phone rang. He put it on speaker so I could hear.

“Toby? It's Dan. Where are you right now?”

“We're at The Tides watching what's going on in the harbor. Your men are all over that boat that's been stuck in the flats. What's it about?”

“Stay right there. I just turned onto Highway 1. I'll be there in a minute. I may need you.”

“Need me for what?”

“Just wait for me at the entrance.” He rang off.

“He's on his way,” said Toby.

“Yeah, I heard, but what's it got to do with you?”

“I don't know, but he sounded worried.”

Andy complained, “That's it. It's gone dead on me.” He scowled at the CB in disgust. Reception is weak on this stretch of the coast. Neither radios nor cell phones can be counted on, especially after dark, in the fog, or when there's cloud cover. It's a pain.

Toby caught the eye of our waitress, called for the bill, left some cash on the table, and signaled to me with a tilt of his head toward the entrance.

“A hell of a thing,” Andy muttered with finality, tucking the CB into the pocket of his hooded sweatshirt. He nodded at us and headed toward the bar, which had a door out to the docks.

We waited for Dan at the front door, facing the parking lot. In a few minutes, he pulled up in a white SUV, tires screeching. “Toby, Nora, glad you're here,” he greeted us, with more warmth than usual. He's generally pretty terse. Dan's in his midthirties, our age, large and powerfully built, authoritative, the kind of person you're inclined to listen to. He was dressed for work in his sheriff's uniform—dark brown pants and a tan shirt—to which he'd pinned his badge.

“Dan,” said Toby, “what's this all about?”

“I hope I'm wrong, but I may need you to identify a body. A couple of teenagers rowed out to that abandoned boat last night. My guess is they were looking for a place to make out. Anyhow, they found a body in the cabin. They didn't call it in until an hour ago because they were scared of getting into trouble. One of my guys out there thinks he recognizes the dead man. It could be that new partner of yours.”

Toby froze. “Charlie?”

“Won't know until you get a look at him. There's no wallet or ID on the body. And my guy may be wrong. Can you wait here? First I need to see things for myself and make sure no one contaminates the scene. The medical examiner is already on board, and there's an ambulance on the way. Once we get him in the van, I'd like you to take a look. Okay?”

“Whatever I can do,” said Toby, his voice hoarse with alarm.

“Why don't you go back inside and have a cup of coffee? You'll know when we're ready.” Dan had been looking steadily at Toby. Now he turned toward me and said with a grim smile, “Sorry to ruin your lunch, you two. I'll be back.”

We turned around and went back to our table, which still hadn't been cleared. Half a crab cake was hidden under a wimple of napkin on my plate, along with a few stiff fries. I retrieved one from a pool of ketchup and waited for Toby to say something.