Murder at Redwood Cove

MURDER AT REDWOOD COVE

Janet Finsilver

LYRICAL UNDERGROUND
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I'm very lucky to have many wonderful people in my life. My husband, E.J., encouraged me to follow my dream and write a mystery. I am forever grateful. The book was reviewed by two critique groups. The writers who shared their sage advice are the following: Colleen Casey, Michael Cooper, Margaret Dumas, Claire Johnson, Rena Leith, Staci McLaughlin, Ann Parker, Carole Price, Penny Warner, and Gordon Yano.

A thank you to Karen Hattori and Lann Westbrook for reading the book and giving me their feedback and to Georgia Drake for her ideas and support. I received very helpful information from Dennis McKiver from his years of service with the California Department of Fish and Game; Don Miller, retired Lieutenant, Mendocino County Sheriff's Office; and Mary Miller, retired Sergeant, Fort Bragg Police Department.

A special thank you to my agent, Dawn Dowdle, and my editor, John Scognamiglio. These are two of the most on top of it people I've ever known, and I have the good fortune to be working with them. Thank you all.

W
hat a horrible way to die—falling forty feet and landing on jagged rocks in the swirling ocean. I couldn't stop thinking about what my boss had told me, even as I forced my attention back to the present. My nails dug into the armrests as the small plane tilted to the side.

My thoughts slid away again. How did the accident happen? Had the inn's manager, the man I was replacing, slipped and fallen on a rugged edge? Had a piece of the treacherous cliff crumbled beneath him?

My fingers traced the embossed company emblem in the stiff brown leather briefcase resting on the seat next to me. When my employer, Michael Corrigan, called and instructed me to get to the bed-and-breakfast as quickly as possible, I felt a surge of excitement mixed with anxiety. It was my first assignment as an executive administrator for Resorts International. A rush of fear followed. It was also my fourth job in three years, not counting my work on the family ranch. Would this one be the fit I had failed to find? Was there even a niche out there for me?

The aircraft dipped and bucked its way through one air pocket after another. I gripped the armrests tighter, stomach lurching with each bump, and resisted the temptation to squeeze my eyes shut. The aircraft lined up with a toothpick-sized landing strip cut out of a thick stand of trees. Lower . . . lower . . . the wheels bumped, and the plane swerved from side to side. Off in the distance, the small patch of dirt runway ended abruptly at a cliff 's edge. Only open ocean beyond.

The pilot steadied the wheel, and the plane's path straightened out. I let go of the seat and uncurled my stiff fingers.

He turned. “Welcome to Mendocino County.”

I took a deep breath. “Thanks for getting me here on such short notice.”

The pilot taxied the plane toward a black Mercedes. “Most people wouldn't thank me after going through all that turbulence.” He chuckled.

“My family has a resort in Wyoming with backcountry lodges we fly into. I never learned to like rides like this, but I got used to them.”

I zipped up my down jacket, glad I'd left it on for the chilly flight. The plane stopped, and I unbuckled the seat belt, stood, and pulled my tan cowboy hat down by the chin strap from the overhead bin, the braided horsehair coarse to the touch. I stared at the parting gift from my family and then looked at the portfolio. The known and loved in one hand and the new in the other.

The pilot finished adjusting his controls, got up, opened the door, and unlatched the steps.

“Thanks again.”

“Michael is a good friend of mine. When he called and asked if I could fly you in from Santa Rosa, I was happy to help.”

I slung the briefcase over my shoulder and held my hat by the brim. I stepped out and grabbed on to the railing to descend the narrow ladder. A blast of cold ocean air whipped my hair around my face, stinging my cheeks. I touched solid ground with one foot, then the other, and breathed a sigh of relief.

The pilot followed me down and pulled my luggage from the cargo area.

A long pencil of a man approached, tugging at a sleeve of his black jacket. “Hi. I'm Daniel Stevens, from Redwood Cove Bed-and-Breakfast.”

I extended my hand. “Kelly Jackson, executive administrator with Resorts International.”

We shook hands, and he reached for my carry-on and duffel bag and turned to the car. A sleek black ponytail swung across his back. The high cheekbones and almond-colored skin hinted at Native American ancestry.

He put the bags down and started to open the front passenger door for me. Hesitating, he reached for the door to the backseat instead.

“Front seat is fine,” I assured him. “Better view.”

He opened the front door. “I'll load your things, and we'll be off.” The wind picked up, and he buttoned the bottom two buttons of his jacket over his starched white shirt. He ran his finger around the stiff collar.

I settled into the passenger seat, put the briefcase on the floor, and placed my hat on top of it. Looking out at the ocean, I noticed a wall of fog hunkered down on the horizon.

Daniel got in. “Sorry about the mix-up with the doors”—he started the car—“I haven't picked up guests before. I don't know the protocol.”

“No problem.”

His shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch.

I leaned back into the leather. Right. Bob Phillips would've picked me up. But he was dead.

“How is Mr. Phillips's wife doing? I understand she suffered a heart attack.”

“She's in Santa Rosita Hospital in intensive care. Her kids are with her.”

We slowly drove off the gravel road and pulled onto California's Coastal Highway One.

“They'd been married thirty-two years,” Daniel said.

Thirty-two years. A lifetime. My marriage had lasted four. I couldn't imagine the depth of the woman's loss. A piece of her life had vanished.

Even in early afternoon, the tall redwood border heavily shadowed the road. Glimpses of blue water flickered through the trees. I pulled myself out of my contemplation of the scenery and back to the work I had to do.

“Daniel, I'd like to go to the site of the accident first. The company wants me to send a report and see if there's anything that suggests we should add some new warning information in our guest booklets.”

“No problem. It's pretty much on our way.”

“The company job description says you're a maintenance supervisor. I'd like to know more about what you do.”

He smiled for the first time. “That's a fancy title for handyman and jack-of-all-trades. My usual uniform is a denim shirt and jeans.” He turned off the highway, following a sign directing them to Redwood Cove. “The B&B is a historic mansion. Upkeep is ongoing. I do some of the work and schedule what needs to be done by specialists. Recently Bob had me helping with the books and payments.”

“Thanks for the information. I'll be managing the property until someone else can be hired. I'm sure I'll have some questions for you.”

We drove through a couple of short town blocks filled with nineteenth-century New England–style architecture and then out onto a wide, open area of grass and bluffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean.

“These are the headlands.” He parked in an empty lot. “Bob walked here often. It's public parkland.”

Daniel led the way along a dirt path that meandered near the cliff's border then dropped down about ten feet below the edge. We walked out onto a flat area surrounded by ocean on three sides. He pointed to craggy, kelp-covered rocks below. “That's where he was found.”

I had envisioned a trail close to the rim that might have collapsed or a place where people heard the siren call of a better view and stepped too far out. But a few people could comfortably picnic at this site, and the view was pretty much the same from wherever you looked out on the small plateau.

I frowned. “Do they know what happened?”

“Not sure. The police are doing an autopsy. Checking to see if he had a stroke or a heart attack.” He looked at his feet and then to the froth-capped waves below.

“Is there anything else?” I prodded gently.

A momentary pause. “No.” Daniel turned, and his long legs took him quickly to the top of the bluff. I joined him. We stopped and gazed down one more time.

“No, get back!” The wind snatched the shrill scream of a child. “Get back! Get back!”

A small boy rode his bike in our direction, struggling to stay upright on the sandy path. A stubby-legged dog worked to keep up, huge ears flapping in the wind. The bike began to topple. He jumped off, dropped it, and ran toward us, waving two slim arms above his head, shouting. The baying dog next to him had more luck being heard.

The boy stumbled and crashed face-first into tall grass next to the trail. We both ran to him. Daniel reached him just as the boy sat up, terrified eyes glued on the slender man. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

My heart wrenched at the anguish on the boy's face.

Daniel knelt beside him. “Tommy, are you hurt?”

A slight shake of his head from side to side. The boy began taking in gulps of air, faster and faster. Then deep sobs started.

Daniel put his arms around him and held him close.

“It's my fault,” the boy struggled to speak. “It's my fault he's dead.” His small fist struck Daniel's starched white shirt, leaving a brown smudge. “It's my fault.”