Ravenwood Cove Cozy Mysteries Books 1-3

by Carolyn L. Dean

  It was a very familiar-looking unmarked car, and just around the side of the house Amanda could see someone in a dark green windbreaker stacking freshly-split wood inside the moss-covered woodshed. He was so busy working that he didn’t notice her coming up the brick walkway that wrapped around the small cottage. Once Amanda could see the backyard, it was very apparent where Mrs. Granger had set the woodpile on fire and had been sitting with her marshmallow sticks. There was a blackened area right in the middle of the yard, with a bit of smoke still stubbornly rising in the fall rain, and an aluminum patio chair set nearby.

  Amanda waited a bit until James turned to grab another piece of wood and he nearly jumped at her sudden appearance.

  “Lady, you’re gonna give me a heart attack!”

  She grinned. “Well, hello to you, too. Is this official detective business?”

  James grinned back and ran a hand through his wet hair, trying to get the rain out of his eyes. “Nah, just a friendly drive-by for an old friend. I heard she had a…ahem…fire recently and thought she might need some new wood.”

  Amanda arched an eyebrow. “Yeah, I heard that, too. You sure this stuff is clean enough for her?”

  The tall detective straightened up, a chunk of firewood in each hand. “Split it myself, so I’m pretty sure it will pass inspection. I know a bit about her eccentricities.” He chucked the wood into the shed. “My brother’s just joined the fire department here and he filled me in on the whole thing.”

  “Ethan?”

  James shook his head, still working on the woodpile. “Derek. You remember him, don’t you?”

  Oh boy, did she remember him. The last time she’d seen Derek he’d been intent on using his devastating charm to great effect at Mrs. Granger’s ninetieth birthday party. “Vaguely,” she lied, and James’ answering smile showed he knew she was fibbing.

  Amanda remembered that Mrs. Granger had been the after school babysitter for James and his siblings when he was a schoolboy, and he still seemed to treat her like she was part of his own family. “You could’ve gotten someone else to help you, you know.”

  “Derek would have but he’s working today. They’re taking the firetruck to drain Mrs. Sandford’s pool for the winter. After all the excitement of Mrs. Granger’s backyard barbecue, odds are there won’t be much for them to do for a few days.”

  He kept stacking wood while he was talking to her, rainwater dripping from the edge of his jacket. “Besides, I try not to let people know about everything I do. Someone once said that the left hand shouldn’t know what the right hand is doing, and I believe in that. Otherwise,” he said as he fit another log onto the growing pile, “- you’re only doing it for your own glory. Not my style.” This was a new side of James that Amanda hadn’t seen before.

  “I guess I’m just used to you when you’re being a detective.”

  “Yeah, well, there’s more to people than their jobs. I do all sorts of weird stuff, lady, even when it’s my day off.” Although his back was turned toward her, she could hear the chuckle in his voice.

  “Sounds intriguing.” She hesitated, afraid to ask. “Um, do you want to get together for coffee later today?”

  He finally turned around, log still in hand, locking eyes with her. There was a flicker of happiness on his face, but then James sighed. “I’m really sorry, but I can’t. I’m meeting with someone today and it’s going to take some time. Can I get a rain check?”

  Amanda could feel the flush of heat to her face, even though she couldn’t see how pink she’d suddenly become. “No problem.”

  Some other person. It had taken her more bravery than she usually had to just ask him to coffee, and now she felt like she’d been blown off.

  Just then, Mrs. Granger popped her head out the front door, hanging onto the doorframe for stability.

  “Amanda! I didn’t know you were here.” She gestured at James, who had returned to quietly stacking more logs on the wood pile.

  “Says he’s going to try to get time to repaint the house, too, God willin’ and the creek don’t rise. Isn’t he a dear?”

  “Yes, he is.” Amanda was still watching his back but mentally shook herself a bit and turned her attention to her ninety-year-old friend, who beckoned her inside. “James, I’ll talk with you later, okay?” she said, and at his answering nod, she stepped through the door into the cottage.

  It was Amanda’s first time visiting Mrs. Granger’s house, and she looked around in surprise. It was neat as a pin, every piece of antique furniture or set of lace curtains as perfectly clean and organized as it could be. The rooms were small and there may have been a bit of wear on the carpet, but it was almost as though she’d stepped into a time capsule from years gone by. At her hostess’ bidding she sat carefully on the offered sofa, careful not to move the starched doilies draped across the back.

  Mrs. Granger pushed her walker, now with a tray of Oreos precariously sliding on the flat seat, and set the plate on the coffee table. “You’re just in time for tea. Well, not tea,” she added, as if remembering. “I’m actually out of tea. Cookies okay?” she asked as she pushed her walker aside and settled into the large armchair.

  Amanda wasn’t there for cookies. “Mrs. Granger, I hear you got a visit from the fire department recently. Everything okay?”

  The little lady looked up at Amanda, her tight smile enigmatic. “Right as rain. Did you see my new firewood James brought for me? Isn’t it lovely and clean?”

  “Gorgeous.” Amanda sighed and gave up trying to change Mrs. Granger’s mind. Sometimes respecting her elders was the better option. Also, she’d lose that argument in a heartbeat. Mrs. Granger had a look in her eye that said she wasn’t going to take any more guff about what had happened with the burned wood, and Amanda let the subject drop.

  Looking around the tidy little parlor, she tried to think of what to say. She could still hear the occasional thuds of wood being thrown into the woodshed outside.

  “Did you hear about Anderson Bowles?”

  The old lady scoffed as she fished an Oreo off the plate. “What do you think everyone’s talking about at Petrie’s? I haven’t heard hardly anything else for days and it’s all the same stuff and speculation.” Mrs. Granger was a regular fixture at Petrie’s hardware store, with a cozy bench by the woodstove and the window, and an endless appetite for small town gossip. Almost every weekday she’d settle in for hours at the store, knitting and warm while happily visiting and eavesdropping on every conversation she could, the store’s large gray cat pressed up next to her.

  “You’d think nothing else was happening in Ravenwood.” Her disgust was clear.

  Amanda thought back to the last time she’d seen Mrs. Granger, at the farmers market, and she suddenly remembered her fishing a gun out of her purse and offering to shoot something off of Anderson Bowles. Amanda didn’t know many people who owned guns in Ravenwood Cove, and the image of the ninety-year-old lady offering to loan the gun to her granddaughter came back with horrible clarity.

  “Mrs. Granger, do you still have that gun you showed me and Meg?”

  “What gun?” Something in Mrs. Granger’s voice, usually so forthright and clear, caught Amanda’s attention.

  “The one you had at the farmers market. Remember?”

  “Oh, that old thing?” Mrs. Granger waved a hand dismissively. “Owen borrowed it a few days back to shoot squirrels. Said they were pilfering every last walnut and filbert he had at his place, and he was going to take ‘em all out.’ ”

  Amanda knew that Owen was very proud of his orchard, having ripped up his kitchen garden years ago to make more room for new trees and a huge grape arbor and raspberry patch. She could definitely picture the cranky old guy setting his sights on whatever furry critter would dare eat any of his produce, and trying to shoot it dead. If the rumors were true it was possible that its poor little carcass might’ve wound up in Owen’s stewpot, too.

  “Do you know what type of gun it was, Mrs. Granger?”

&n
bsp; The old lady shrugged. “One that shoots things, that’s all I know. I know Hubert kept it loaded in case burglars got in the house.”

  Amanda pressed on. “Do you know what size it is, like how big the bullets are?”

  Mrs. Granger looked confused. “Um, thirty something. I don’t remember.”

  She waved a lone Oreo at her young guest. “You know, since you’ve come to Ravenwood Cove we’ve had two murders. That’s a trend.” Her bright eyes twinkled in merriment. “You’re not the common denominator here, are ya, Amanda?”

  Amanda sat up stiffly, a bit offended. She was proud of the friends she’d made at Ravenwood Cove and the way she’d helped the town, so for someone to imply that the two recent murders were perhaps connected to her was definitely uncomfortable.

  At Amanda’s huffy answer of “I don’t think so,” Mrs. Granger hastily tried to bring back her guest’s good mood. “I was only joking, dear. I wasn’t trying to point fingers,” she added as she took a big bite of her cookie. “I was just commenting that since you showed up this town hasn’t been the same, and actually I think that’s a good thing.” She grinned, dark cookie crumbs outlining her fake teeth. “Both of those dead guys deserved whatever they got.”

  Amanda curbed a smile when she saw the remnants of Oreo in her friend’s dentures, but pressed on. “What do you mean, they deserved whatever they got? Did you know Anderson Bowles, Mrs. Granger?”

  Her hostess shook her head and wiped her mouth with a paper napkin. “I never met him before, and I was glad you didn’t know him either. He was the worst type of boy.”

  Amanda instantly understood that if Mrs. Granger hadn’t met him and had such contempt for him in her voice, she must’ve gotten the info from someone else. “What do you know about him?” she asked, trying to maintain an air of detachment.

  The wily old woman wasn’t having any of it. “You questioning me, young lady? You’re starting to sound like a certain young detective I know.” Amanda stayed patiently silent, and finally Mrs. Granger sighed in defeat.

  “You ever heard of those men who attack girls when they’re out on dates with them, or who put drugs in their drinks and then carry them off to do terrible things?”

  The hair on the back of Amanda’s neck was standing up, her arms pimpling with goosebumps.

  “You mean date rapists.” It wasn’t a question. The year before she left LA, a friend of Amanda’s had been attacked while on a date with a seemingly nice guy, and it had shattered her life in terrible ways.

  “Yes.” Mrs. Granger’s bright, sparrow-like eyes bored into Amanda’s. “He was one. Attacked the granddaughter of–” she hesitated for a moment – “a person I know. That poor girl was never the same. She wound up dropping out of college and moving to the other side of the country, just to get away from the memories, I guess. I heard she even thought about suicide.” Her eyes were moist with unshed sympathy. “It was terrible.”

  Amanda thought back on the fact that Meg had dated this guy very briefly and her stomach lurched at the thought of what could’ve happened to her. “So, you didn’t know this guy by sight, but you know about him now? Or had you heard about him before?”

  “Does it matter?” The old lady hauled herself up to stand at her walker and started moving toward the kitchen. “I’ll make tea.”

  “I thought you were out of tea.”

  “Fine. I’ll make Kool-aid, then.”

  Mrs. Granger definitely knew more than she was telling, but she had clammed up tight and wouldn’t answer any more questions, no matter how delicately Amanda probed or how many teacups of raspberry Kool-aid she sipped. Even without giving any more information, it was apparent that the old lady was very sure of her facts, and of her opinion of Anderson Bowles. With a past like that Amanda could certainly understand why someone would want a sexual predator dead, especially if they’d been affected by him or if someone they loved had been one of his victims.

  Amanda tried to look interested in the stories her hostess was telling, but just as she finished her second cup of juice a sudden, horrible realization hit her. What if Meg hadn’t told her the whole story about her time dating Anderson Bowles? What if she’d been one of his victims?

  Following that thought to the next question made Amanda’s heartbeat race and she felt almost physically ill. What if her sweet, bubbly friend had been victimized, and had decided to somehow take revenge on the despicable Anderson Bowles?

  Chapter 9

  It seemed like no matter where Amanda went in Ravenwood Cove, people wanted to talk to her. She was used to the merchants she knew waving and smiling and wanting to chat, but this trip into town was different. Apparently finding a dead body under mysterious circumstances brought out the amateur sleuths and gossips, all eager to stop her on the sidewalk and question her about what new details had been discovered. A simple drive to Main Street to pick up supplies and talk to shopkeepers about the upcoming bake sale to benefit the library book fund became a nearly two-hour affair. Person after person stopped her for ‘just a few minutes’ and tried to pry any new information out of her. She kept trying to control her frustration and be polite even as she did her best to extricate herself from the conversations, and she was careful to remember James’ admonition to keep details of the investigation quiet. What they talked about stayed confidential.

  Ducking under the pink- and white-striped awning of the Bake Me Happy Bakery and Candy Shoppe, Amanda let out a deep sigh of relief. Not only was the beautiful little shop a favorite place of hers, but the quiet atmosphere and delicious aromas made it seem like a haven from the constant questions she’d been fielding all morning. The air was thick with the luscious smells of bread fresh out of the oven and melted chocolate, and she noticed there were several new, large glass jars in the candy section.

  Mrs. Mason was using a long pair of wooden tongs to carefully choose the perfect jawbreaker candy from a tall jar as Danielle Ortiz stood on her tiptoes and gave her clear instructions on exactly which one she wanted. Her mother, Amy, stood by watching her eight-year-old direct the enormously patient Mrs. Mason until just the right candy was extracted carefully from the jar and plopped into a white wax bag. Danielle’s gap-toothed grin was about a mile wide as she handed over some coins from her allowance and Mrs. Mason wished her a good day. Amanda smiled at Amy as she herded Danielle out the door, then had to grit her teeth at Mrs. Mason’s greeting.

  “So, what do you hear about the investigation? Has that detective of yours found the culprit yet?”

  So much for the bakery being a haven of quiet and peace.

  “He’s not my detective, Mrs. Mason. He’s just a friend.”

  Mrs. Mason looked over the top of her wire-rimmed glasses, dubious. “Really?” She drew it out in that way people do when they’re talking to a dim-witted child. “Well, honey, you’re just gonna have to try harder.”

  “Mrs. Mason – “

  The plump baker interrupted her, waving the wooden tongs as she walked toward the cash register. “Oh, I’m just teasing you, Amanda. Don’t sound so irritated. Now, about the investigation, what’s new?” She opened the register drawer and dropped in Danielle’s coins, still peering at the younger woman over the top edge of her glasses.

  “Nothing much.” Nothing much I can talk about, she thought, but kept it to herself. “I thought I’d swing by and see what you were donating for the library bake sale, and remind you that it’s not too early to start planning for the Hometown Holiday Festival in December. Are you still making pumpkin muffins for the Harvest Festival?”

  Mrs. Mason wasn’t going to be deterred quite so easily. “The word around town is that there are plenty of people who would’ve liked to see that guy dead.” She leaned forward, her voice a near whisper in the empty bakery. “Pervert, doncha know.”

  Amanda’s heart sank. She’d been suspicious that the news about Anderson Bowles’ nefarious life had leaked out, and now it was confirmed. She was definitely going to have a talk about gossip w
ith a certain ninety-year old friend of hers.

  “I can’t say I blame ‘em,” Mrs. Mason continued, wiping her hands off on her apron. “Men like him deserve whatever they get.”

  Amanda gave up. Apparently there had already been all sorts of backroom chitchat about the murder and speculation on who had done what. If you can’t beat ‘em, she thought.

  “So what are people saying?”

  “Oh, I never listen to what other people say,” Mrs. Mason said, smiling and obviously sincere. “It’s against my personal beliefs.” Her voice dropped low again. “But, I can tell you who’d I’d put my money on, if there was such a thing as a betting pool.”

  A betting pool for murder. Amanda tried to keep her voice calm and not show her irritation. “You think you know who killed Anderson Bowles?”

  “Well, I have my suspicions. Did you hear about the argument between him and someone else, right here in my bakery?”

  That got Amanda’s attention. “What argument?”

  Mrs. Mason suddenly seemed upset, her eyebrows gathered together in concern. “You know I don’t like it when people disagree in the bakery. Well, that man, Anderson Bowles, was in here buying raspberry tarts and flirting with Celia, when Truman comes barging in here like he owned the place. I don’t know if he’d been following Mr. Bowles or saw him through the window, but he storms in and starts raising his voice right away.” Mrs. Mason’s eyes darted sideways, as if she was telling a secret. “He laid into him, telling him that he hoped he never saw him again, and then they started arguing something fierce.”

  Amanda was shocked. She’d never expected to hear something like this, especially about her new friend, Truman. He seemed like such a friendly, helpful sort of person that the idea of him yelling at someone in anger seemed completely out of character.

  “Argued about what?”

  “Truman said he was a pathetic excuse for a man and that he’d ruined some girl’s life. Got right in his face and hollered at him. Called him a weasel.”