Ravenwood Cove Cozy Mysteries Books 1-3

by Carolyn L. Dean

  Business must’ve been good that day because Ian was sitting on a tall stool behind the Dutch door of his office, the bottom part closed and the top of the door swung open to let in the rare fall sunshine. Supposedly waiting for customers, his nose was buried in his newspaper but he folded a corner back when he heard the crunch of tires in the parking lot and the ignition being turned off. At the sight of James he scowled and quickly ducked behind his paper again.

  Amanda stood at the halfway open door, a small wooden counter tacked onto the outside so the owner could do business without ever having to leave the comfort of his small shack. James waited with her, but after a full thirty seconds of being ignored, his patience snapped.

  “Hello, Ian. Do you have a few minutes?”

  “We’d just like to ask a few questions,” Amanda added, helpfully.

  “Sorry, I’m busy today. Lots of tourists, and I’m waiting on six boats to come back,” the newspaper said.

  James looked at Amanda, his eye roll showing his impatience.

  “Look, it’ll just take a –“

  “Got my boat out of the evidence impound yet, or are you planning on keeping it through the winter? Some of us gotta earn an honest living, ya know.” The words were directed at James, the tone bitter. The newspaper stayed an unmoving wall between them.

  “Mr. Victor, we’re trying to clear this whole thing up so you can get your property back as quickly as possible, I promise. Please, won’t you take just a moment to speak with us?” Amanda tried to make her voice as calm and sweet as possible, hoping to charm the old curmudgeon, and when the paper flexed and then one side folded back she knew that her attempt must’ve worked.

  “If you’re trying to help me get my boat back young lady, I’m all ears. What can I do ya for?”

  Amanda smiled at Ian, who perked up and looked more interested, but her mind was racing to think of the info James would want. They’d been chatting a bit in the car and somehow the topic of what questions to ask hadn’t come up. She was trying to keep James out of it, since Ian obviously didn’t want to talk with him.

  “I’m just trying to find out more about the man who rented your boat. Can you tell me anything about why he wanted it, or if you noticed anything peculiar at all?”

  Ian leaned forward across the small counter, his previously-cold expression now changed to obvious interest, his bushy eyebrows raised over friendly blue eyes. “For you, young lady, anything.” His attempt at a smile came out a bit too much as a leer, but Amanda ignored it, even though she could feel James’ attention tighten up on the boat owner.

  Ian pointed up at the battered wooden sign over the door, with WHALE WATCHING painted in faded blue letters and a poorly-drawn cartoon of a spouting whale on each end. “Guy said he wanted to go see the whales. I told him it was the wrong season, that the grays wouldn’t be down this part of the coast until about November, except for a few loners, but he kept insisting that he wanted to go see whales. I figured his money was as good anyone else’s so I rented him a boat and told him to stay close to the shore. He had a life vest and a cooler with him, and I made sure he knew how to handle that motor before I even took his money.”

  “Did you notice anything unusual? Was anyone following him, or did anyone else get in the boat?”

  Ian folded his paper away, obviously thinking. “No one else got in that boat, Missy, and I didn’t see a soul around except the seagulls. Most of the people rent boats early around here, wanting to follow the morning tide out of the cove, and it was mid-afternoon before that guy showed up. Some of the rentals were already back, and he seemed to have a hard time getting out of the cove with the tide being what it was. I watched him to be sure he knew what he was doing, but it looked like he’d handled a boat before so I went back in the office.”

  Ian glanced at James and pointedly sniffed. “I always make sure my customers are safe when they leave. Not my fault what happens to ‘em once they’re out to sea. They sign a contract that says they pay for any damage or loss and it’s all nice and legal, tight as a drum.”

  Amanda knew the tide could be tricky if someone was trying to get out of Ravenwood Cove at the wrong time of day, and could definitely understand why Ian would’ve considered Anderson Bowles skilled if he was able to go against the tide.

  “Can you tell us anything else, sir?”

  The boat owner leaned an elbow on his small counter and set his chin in his hand, his focus completely on Amanda.

  “And what do I get if I help with the investigation?” he asked, and grinned broadly.

  Apparently, James was getting frustrated with the direction the conversation was going. “You don’t get a subpoena slapped on your desk and have to spend time away from your work while we question you. That’s what you get.” His voice was calm, his face carefully neutral, but there was no question that he meant business.

  Ian glanced at him again and straightened up, still addressing Amanda. “Fine. Well, that guy was kinda weird when he showed up. It was getting cloudy and he kept griping about the new sunglasses he’d bought. Wouldn’t shut up about ‘em. He kept giggling a lot, too. At first I thought he was drunk or something, but he was talking real clear and didn’t slur when I went over the contract and he didn’t smell like booze, so I figured he was just kinda…off.”

  Amanda frowned, puzzled. “He kept complaining? About what?”

  “What didn’t that guy complain about?” Ian started ticking off a list on his fingers. “He didn’t like how much I was charging him for the rental. He told me that this town sucked and that all the girls were ugly. He was chuckling and talking to himself and whining about how his two hundred dollar designer sunglasses were making things look yellow and green and kind of smeared.” Ian picked up his neglected newspaper and looked disgusted. “I guess he thought somebody had sold him a knockoff pair or something. Said he was going to get his money back but he didn’t have the receipt, and he’d have to drive all the way to Portland.” Ian rolled his eyes. “Not like most of us have two hundred dollar sunglasses to brag about.”

  “Did you notice anything else?” Amanda could tell Ian was starting to get bored with the whole conversation, his poor attempt at flirting going completely unrewarded. He sat back in his chair and unfolded his paper, but stopped as if something had just occurred to him.

  “Well, he did have a lotta trouble figuring out which credit card to use. He seemed real confused about which one to give me. He actually tried to pay with his Chevron card.”

  James took one step toward the half-open door, and Amanda instantly knew that something Ian said must’ve caught James’ attention.

  “Ian, how much did you charge for the boat rental?”

  Bushy eyebrows raised, the little man did his best to look completely innocent.

  “No more than what was fair.”

  “Uh-HUH,” James said, obviously skeptical. “I know you, Ian. You’d work over your own mother to scrape an extra nickel out of her. Show me the contract you had with Anderson Bowles.”

  The expression on Ian’s face was almost a defiant pout. “I never did anything illegal, and you keep my mother outta this.”

  “Fair enough. I’m sorry I said anything about your mother.” James held out his hand. “Contract, Ian.” After a bit of searching in the back of the small office, and a loud slam of a metal file cabinet, Ian reluctantly returned to the half-door, piece of paper in hand. James took it from him and quickly scanned the contents.

  “You charged him triple your normal rate.”

  “So what if I did?” Ian blustered. “If you had a business you had to keep running and one of your customers was a little bit weird, you’d charge him extra, too. These days you can’t be too careful.” He put out his hand for the contract, but James ignored him until finally Ian dropped his open hand and sighed. “Look, I didn’t know if he was off his meds or on drugs or what. It’s a lot easier to get money up front than it is to try to get someone to pay to replace an entire boat later o
n.”

  Seeing James’ dark expression, Amanda stepped in. “I can certainly understand why you’d want to protect yourself. You were worried about your business, right?”

  Ian shrugged. “Even with all the new tourists, things still aren’t easy. I need all the money I can get.”

  Detective Landon seemed much less sympathetic. “I’m taking this contract as evidence, Ian, and we’re going to talk about this again later.”

  Even though he shook Amanda’s hand dispiritedly, Ian’s eyes never left James’ face, and when they turned to walk back to Amanda’s car, they heard the top part of the office door quickly slamming shut. Apparently Ian had had enough human interaction for one day.

  Chapter 7

  It was a lovely Oregon day in fall at the Ravenwood Inn, with a soft rain outside and a pot of fragrant beef stew on the stove in the warm kitchen. During a rare break in the weather Amanda went outside to pick the herbs for the stew from the recently-replanted garden and then dashed to the back of the Inn’s property to feed her small flock of chickens. One would think that a chicken coop wouldn’t be very pretty, but Amanda had made sure it was when she told her contractor Roy Greeley the details about what to build. The tidy little shed was painted sage green with cream-colored trim, and boasted a large, fenced enclosure with plenty of shade outside and warm straw and roosts inside. Sometimes, when she was throwing corn to the inquisitive hens or gathering warm eggs, she couldn’t believe how much her life had changed since she left LA. No one could’ve guessed that she’d go from being an unhappy cubicle dweller in a gray-colored office to owning a historic Inn on a bluff overlooking the Oregon coast. As she clucked to the hens, she kept an eye out for the protective rooster, Dumb Cluck, as she checked the feed and water. Counting the eggs in her basket, she clicked the gate shut behind her. Almost a dozen. They were so fresh that the fat orange yolks would stand up firm and bright when cooked, and they were amazing for baking.

  Maybe some snickerdoodles later today, she mused, and headed back to the Inn.

  When Amanda walked into the kitchen Oscar, the huge orange cat that Amanda had adopted, was in his customary place in a large upholstered dog bed in the corner. He meowed at her once in greeting, then hopped out to see what goodies she’d brought inside. Sniffing her basket and obviously disappointed that it didn’t contain fish, he rubbed against her ankles to remind her of his nearly-empty food dish. Amanda couldn’t help but chuckle when she reached down to pet the big cat’s head. “Just a second, Oscar. I need to put this stuff away first.” The orange cat obviously understood, looking up at her and purring like a buzz saw. It made Amanda happy to see how healthy Oscar was now. When she’d first found him, hiding under her porch and begging for bits of her tuna sandwich, the cat had been terribly thin but her indulgence and his enthusiastic appetite had given him much more padding and a glossy coat.

  Today she had the Inn all to herself. Her one guest, Richard Loomis, had checked himself out the day before by leaving his key on the small desk in the foyer when Amanda was in the sunroom, and Amanda had already decorated the wide front porch with fat pumpkins on the stairs and two groups of corn stalks on either side of the huge door. A couple of hanging lanterns attached to hooks under the eaves, and she was done. She’d already pulled the old-fashioned decorations out of the attic and added touches of fall color to every room. Wreaths of red and gold leaves dusted with subtle gold glitter were hung in every front window, and she’d put out covered dishes of candy corn and spiced nuts on the carved side tables in the parlor. With all of her chores done, she was looking forward to a rare day of reading and lounging around in her bathrobe, something she never got to do when she had paying guests at the Inn.

  Once Oscar was fed and plowing his way through the mound of squishy food in his bowl, Amanda settled onto the biggest sofa in the parlor with a good book and a thick quilt. The raindrops gently running down the large window were the perfect accompaniment to a day of relaxation and puttering around the inn, and her cat was happy to settle in beside her for a warm spot and a long nap.

  Of course, it didn’t last. There was a loud rapping on the front door, then a pause and a smaller, more timid knock. Amanda slapped her book shut and tried to get her annoyance under control as she pulled her robe more tightly around herself and went to answer the front door.

  As Amanda swung the door open her friend Meg came barreling in without even a greeting, throwing her purse on a nearby setee and heading for the kitchen, Amanda trailing behind in bewilderment. She’d been wanting to talk to her friend about Anderson Bowles’ death, but she’d been putting it off, almost afraid of what her sweet friend might reveal if she pushed too hard.

  “She burned it. All of it.” Meg’s mouth was a thin, bitter line. “Got any wine?”

  Amanda automatically pulled a bottle out of the wine cooler under the kitchen island and reached for a corkscrew. “Who burned what? What are you talking about?”

  Her usually-cheerful friend plopped down in one of the tall stools and leaned her elbows on the gray marble. “Guess.”

  Amanda didn’t need to guess. In the short time she’d known Meg, the only person who could frustrate her that much was her grandmother, Mrs. Granger.

  “What did she do this time?”

  Meg almost looked embarrassed. “Remember all that wood you gave me, from when they pulled down your kitchen porch and rebuilt it after the fire?”

  Amanda nodded. The insurance company had paid for a brand new porch, and every bit of wood that had been affected by the fire had been scrapped. Meg had come by to visit one day and deliver some much-loved cinnamon rolls for the guests’ continental breakfast, a few hours before the dumpster had arrived to dispose of the scattered planks that Roy Greeley, the local contractor, had pulled off the Inn to make way for construction of a replacement porch. Megan had looked over the piles of unwanted wood and finally had asked Amanda about the possibility of hauling the unpainted pieces of wood away and giving them to her grandmother. The ninety-year-old lady had an older cottage near the outskirts of town and her main heat for cold weather was her woodstove. Since Mrs. Granger was on a fixed income, Meg had explained, it would be wonderful to have some free wood for her grandmother to use during the winter, and Amanda had been very happy to give it to her friend.

  At Amanda’s silent nod of confirmation, Meg continued. “Well, you know how my Gramma keeps her house spic and span inside, even if she can’t keep it up outside.” Another nod, and Meg gave a deep sigh. “When I had Pastor Tom drop the wood by, you’d have thought I was bringing by blankets contaminated with smallpox. She pitched a fit and flat out refused to let us pile it up in her woodshed or anywhere near it, saying it was filthy and it’d get the whole inside of her house covered in soot from the fire at your place.”

  Mrs. Granger had a reputation for being house proud so Amanda wasn’t surprised, but she had a feeling there was more to the story.

  “So, what happened?”

  Her friend leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. “We went back and forth a few times and she kept telling me she wasn’t going to take the wood, but I know she needs some help heating her place over the winter months so I finally raised my voice at her and asked if I had it stacked neatly by her compost pile, if she’d burn it. She said she would.”

  Something clicked in Amanda’s brain, and she had an instant suspicion what her devious ninety-year-old friend had in mind when she’d brought up the topic of fire.

  “So, she waited until I left, and then she dumped some kerosene on it and set the whole woodpile we’d brought on fire. Burned it down to ash. The smoke got the neighbor’s attention so they called the fire department, and I got called by Burt to come deal with my grandmother. Guess what she was doing when I arrived?”

  Meg always seemed to want Amanda to guess, but she only asked so she could tell her more details.

  “She was sitting in her walker in the backyard, roasting marshmallows. Said she wanted s’mores.”

>   Amanda tried to stifle a laugh, but even clapping a hand over her mouth couldn’t muffle the sound of her chuckle. She could just picture the determined old lady, roasting stick in hand and jaw set in defiance as she toasted a marshmallow.

  At Meg’s look of disgust at her friend’s laughter Amanda straightened up and held up both hands in apology. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it.”

  “Now I’ve got to figure out how to replace that wood, all because of an old lady’s ego.”

  Amanda was suspicious Mrs. Granger wasn’t motivated by ego as much as she motivated by proving she was still independent and could live on her own. Meg could be a bit overprotective sometimes, and her grandmother was very strong-willed.

  “We’ll find some more wood for her. I’ll bet the pastor or Roy would know where we could get some cheap wood.”

  “I’ve had it with her. I don’t even know what to do anymore.” Amanda had heard that phrase a couple of times before, but Meg never meant it. Even though her grandmother was a handful, she loved her fiercely.

  “Would you like me to go talk to her?” Amanda offered. “Maybe I can set her mind at ease that we’ll get her some new wood for winter.”

  “And clean. It’s gotta be clean,” Meg added glumly. “If it’s not, next time she’ll be roasting hot dogs when I show up.”

  Chapter 8

  It only took a few minutes for Amanda to drive to Mrs. Granger’s, splashing through the puddles and listening to her windshield wipers swipe back and forth. Mrs. Granger’s home was on the outskirts of town, and even though Amanda hadn’t visited her before, she’d dropped Meg off a couple of times after she’d had a tiring day at work. Coming around the last bend in the road, Amanda was surprised to see another car parked in front of Mrs. Granger’s leaning picket fence.